Heartsick
by SignsOfSun
Summary: Mary Winchester has been killed on a hunt. Her now second death has hit both of her son's hard. But one of them may never recover from the loss when grief manifests itself in an unexpected way.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**

Mary Winchester has been killed on a hunt. Her now second death has hit both of her son's hard. But one of them may never recover from the loss when grief manifests itself in an unexpected way.

 **Warnings**

Possible character death but can't say for sure one way or another because that would take away from the story. But be full aware I have written a lot of fanfiction for many different fandoms (here under several names and in other places) and have ended stories both ways – with surviving and not surviving. So maybe. Maybe not. So thought I would mention it in case that uncertainty doesn't work for somebody.

 **Characters:**

Sam, Dean and some Castiel.

 **I-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-I**

 **Heartsick**

 **Chapter One**

Placing his hand against his own chest Dean rubs at the layer of fabric there and at the tightness underneath. But it does little in the way of relief. It isn't the first time he's found himself doing this over the last few days. Sam has also noticed a time or two. On those occasions his brother had taken note of it before Dean had even realized what he was doing.

But he had played it off, grumbling about getting too old to be living off bacon cheeseburgers and french fries. His brother had been nagging him about his eating habits more than usual lately as Sam was on one of his rabbit food eating kicks. So Dean's suggestion that it was his diet that was catching up with him was an easy distraction to hook his brother on.

But Dean knows deep down that is not the cause. His chest isn't tight because of too much greasy food and his increasing age. He knows this because of when it first happened.

He had been alone in his room, seated on the bed, holding a photo of he and his brother and their mother. He even recalls what he had been thinking at the time. _After Mom was returned to us why didn't we take more photographs?_ he had been asking himself.

Seems they should have learned their lesson given how precious few they had after the fire all those years ago. Why didn't they take more this time around? Seems like they should have known all too well that the saying y _ou don't know what you have until it is gone_ is true. They lived it after all.

But they hadn't. And now their mother was gone a second time. Again they were left with only a handful of tangible reminders. That realization had been settling into Dean's mind when his chest had become tight that very first time. It had come over him as a wave of nearly suffocating pressure. It had completely submerged him under its weight and he felt like he was drowning.

The very same thing is happening now as he thinks about it.

Dean takes in a deep breath, a near gasp, and finds his heartbeats have sped up in pace and become uneven in rhythm.

He wishes he knew when all this would relent. Despite his cynicism he still questions the extent of its persistence and weight. He pleads for mercy asking silently t _here must be an end to this sometime, right?_

He asks not because he really believes there is one. The question comes out of the depth of the ache. The loss has torn something out of him – completely severed it this time round. And the emptiness and sadness encompass him. He wishes he could release it, just let it go. But he can't. It clings to him relentlessly. And in some twisted way he needs it. Perhaps it's penance for his failure to protect his family. Or maybe he just deserves it in general. He has never been the most upstanding person after all.

He forces himself to inhale more fully and breath it out very slowly. He hones in on that singular task as the desperate need for air overwhelms him.

"Dammit!" he manages to huff out under his breath as his efforts seem to be failing and he's so light headed he thinks he might pass out. He curses himself for losing focus and gets himself back in line. _One full breath in and one full breath out. Steady the pace. And stay calm in the head._

Despite his efforts his chest continues to tighten and there's a cement filled knot forming in his stomach. The rate of his heart hasn't slowed and he's pretty sure if he moves at all it will result in him being passed out cold on the floor.

A piece of him is tugged to call Sam. The phone is right there on the desk where he sits and its within easy reach. He stretches his fingertips towards it and makes contact with its surface but another thought lobbies for position and, ultimately, wins out. He doesn't want Sam to see him like this if at all possible. Why should his little brother have to clean up the disaster he's become. He's got enough to deal with on his own.

So he pushes the phone away. It skids across the tabletop and only stops, finally, because it slams into the wall adjacent to the desk.

He slogs through several more rounds of his _one full breath in and one full breath out - steady the pace - and stay calm in the head_ mantra _._ Finally the drowning sensation begins to subside ever so slowly. By the time the wave has receded enough that his surroundings are coming back into focus he is worn out and covered in a layer of sweat. The cool air of his bedroom connecting with his moist heated skin sends a shiver through him.

He slowly blows out a tired exhale and looks down to the open journal on the desk in front of him. The discarded pen he had been using to write in it lays forgotten tucked in the crease.

He doesn't feel up to returning to it so he picks up the pen and sets it aside. Then carefully closes the book. Normally, he would immediately put it up in its proper place. But right now he could care less. So he gets up and leaves it abandoned on the desk.

He looks around the room for a moment. His mind is slow to process the details of it. Mostly he just wants to sleep – for a really long time. But knows that with sleep comes unwanted things – nightmares and memories of things he can't handle right now.

He also knows he can't focus on any task requiring much in the way thinking right now. He just can't seem to hold a line of thought at all. But he's crawling out of his own skin so he needs to do something. His gaze wanders the room without any clue what he's searching for. He feels hopelessly lost for a long moment until, finally, he spots something which will at least keep his hands occupied. If nothing else.

 **I-%%-%-%%-I**

Sam makes his way along the curve of the hallway towards his brother's room. He carries a plate in one hand and a tall slender glass in the other. The plate contains a turkey sandwich loaded with veggies and made with two slices of organic wheat bread. The glass is filled to the brim with the best premium orange juice he could find.

He holds just a sliver of hope that he can get Dean to eat and drink something marginally in the way of healthy. He's been hold up in his room for much of the time since their mother died. The times he has emerged he's been one of two things - either a sluggish sullen rag doll or a well oiled machine in constant motion. He alternates between the two extremes.

Sam is struggling too and doing his best to process the loss. It hurts, something has been stolen from him yet again, but he's finding ways to let it out. He draws and writes in secret like a mad man and takes out pent up energy by working out as if he is training for a triathlon. He's even read a few self help books on coping with grief online. And it seems to be taking the edge off. The pain is still there but most of the time it is some semblance of manageable.

But Dean is different.

He's completely and utterly grief stricken. And if there is one thing Sam knows it's that Dean has trouble letting go of the sharp edged things. Especially if he harbors even an ounce of regret regarding it. And this particular loss, well, he has a vice grip on it. Which means Sam knows his chances are slim, like the odds of hitting the trifecta kind of slim, that he'll be able to get Dean to loosen his grasp on it even a little.

Sam could try to forcefully wrestle it free but that would only make his brother fight to hang on to it more. Challenging Dean will get him nowhere – at least nowhere he wants to be. Sam knows his only chance is a subtler, possibly sneakier, approach. He'll do what he has to.

He wishes he knew better how to help Dean. It feels like he's tried everything. He's sat with his brother in a silence doing his best to not lay on any pressure to strike up conversation. To just simply hang out and watch a movie or play cards. Other times he's offered a few carefully chosen words and hoped his brother might latch on to the opening to talk. He's dug up jobs for them, presenting the opportunity for distraction, if only for a little while. He's even played a small prank or two on Dean in hopes of eliciting a pissed off reaction. Or maybe, if he's lucky, a prank in return. At least then Dean would be expressing something, anything, to him.

But so far nothing has worked even in the slightest.

In fact, Sam's not even sure that Dean has been tuned in for most of it. Because his brother, despite offering typical replies and actions in line with his personality, is clearly faking it or on some kind of autopilot.

Sam's leaning towards the latter since seemingly without realizing it Dean's snarky comments and indifferent replies are tending to be out of sync with what's going on around him. His reactions at times, more often than not, are delayed far behind what has taken place. And that's how Sam knows it's bad. Even consumed with thoughts of whatever big thing was going down some piece of his brother's brain has always been right on top of things and his reflexes always right on time. The absence of that is disconcerting to say the least.

Sam allows himself a faint sigh as he closes in on Dean's bedroom door.

Upon arriving in front of it he places the plate in his left hand on top of the glass in his right and balances it there. He takes in a deep calming breath. Then gives a quick rap of the knuckle on the wood of the door. He doesn't wait for any type of reply. He does this deliberately as he's well aware if he did hesitate all he would get in response would be Dean's voice telling him that visiting hours are over and to try back later if he dares. Or even more likely no real verbal response at all. Just a inaudible grumble or disgruntled grunt from the other side of the closed door.

When Sam turns the knob with his free hand he does look down at the floor however. Unexpectedly opening the door on Dean Winchester's private space could get you more of a sight than you bargained for. So to be safe Sam decides to divert his gaze long enough to determine if the coast is clear.

"What the hell, man. Ever hear of letting someone say _come in_ first?" his brother's voice pipes up.

"Sorry. I – uh – forgot," Sam replies as it's the only thing he can seem to come up with quickly on the spot.

"You _forgot_?"

"Guess so," he answers, feigning a stumped tone to his voice. He shifts his gaze up a fraction. It's just enough to get a glimpse of the room. He visually assesses the scene for a split second to see if it's safe to look up fully. His brother is seated on the floor leaned back against the side of the bed and, thankfully, fully clothed. So Sam lifts his gaze the rest of the way.

It's then that he notices the collection of knives laid out on the floor in a semicircle around where his brother sits. And there's a sharpening stone gripped in his fist. Not wanting to ponder on that whole situation too long Sam speaks back up.

"Oh, hey, I brought food," Sam offers as he enters further into the room. Dean looks over at him for a quick beat and then back to his weaponry. Then replies.

"That's not food, Sam. That's bunny rabbit chow."

"Rabbit's don't eat turkey, Dean. And _bunny rabbit_ isn't even the right term."

His brother doesn't verbally reply just sort of shrugs his shoulders a bit. There's a long string of silent beats before an offended expression crosses over Dean's face. He has just caught up fully and appears insulted that Sam thought he didn't know about rabbits and their food preferences and the related terminology.

But, suddenly, it's Sam who feels like he's trailing behind because he's just noticed something important which he hadn't caught before. Dean's other hand.

While his right hand holds the sharpening stone that Sam has already taken note of it's the left he registers now. Dean's palm is rested flat against his chest. His fingertips are pressed slightly inward as he rubs at his sternum through the cotton of his t-shirt. His hand moves rhythmic up and down over the spot, working away at some hidden affliction.

He has caught Dean doing this several times in the last few days. And every time he seems to not have known that he was even doing it until external attention was brought to it. Then a lame excuse always came next.

Sam notes that he is going to have to find a new approach if he's going to get the true cause out of his brother. He studies the motion for a moment, trying to determine its origin on his own.

Then suddenly his mind clicks back in and he realizes his mistake. He's stared at one place for too long. Because it has drawn Dean's attention there as well. And, instantly, his brother's hand shifts and his fingertips begin to scratch furiously at his chest and up along to the skin of his neck and down along his arm.

"Dude, do we have bedbugs? Because I am seriously itchy," Dean asks.

"Not that I know of," Sam replies in a resigned sounding voice. He doesn't bother to hide the tone because they both know Dean's question really isn't a question but a lame attempt to cover. Neither of them addresses it though. Dean because denial is his forte and he'll swear up and down and until the cows come home that it never happened. And Sam because he's treading a fine line here and he doesn't want to tip the scales against his already slim chances of getting through to Dean by pissing him off.

"So where do you want the food?" Sam inquires as a way to change the subject.

"Rabbit chow."

"Right. Where do you want the rabbit chow?"

"Back in the kitchen," Dean states in way that seems to indicate this should have been obvious.

"That works. I was going to make a bite for myself so we can eat together," Sam replies. A bit of hopefulness slips through in his tone at the possibility that this might pan out after all..

"I meant you can take it back to the kitchen and put it in the fridge or eat it yourself or maybe throw it in the trash if the first two don't work for you."

Sam can almost see his sliver of hope as it flickers out but he can't stop himself and plows ahead anyway.

"Dean, come one man. You need to eat something with actual nutritional value."

"Look, thanks for the room service but I'm not hungry."

"How are you not hungry? You barely leave this room and when you do you barely eat anything and none of its healthy," Sam responds. It comes out all wrong, too forceful and accusatory, and he bites down on his bottom lip, bracing for the backlash.

"Appetite is on the fritz I guess," his brother replies. It is flat, indifferent, and not the tone Sam expected it would be delivered in. It throws him for a moment. Then he opts to let this battle go and focus on winning the war.

He heads over to the desk and sets the glass and plate down there. His back now turned to Dean he lets his expression fall a bit. He's had to school his features into a somewhat neutral expression in order to conceal the true level of his worry so his brother doesn't go into complete lockdown mode. And it feels good to not have to think about it if only for a fleeting moment.

"I'll put it over here just in case," he offers while he's still turned away. No reply comes and Sam takes another moment's rest before he has to put his mask back on. He spots Dean's journal on the desk and he dares to let the flicker of hope re-ignite. Writing in it has always been something Dean has enjoyed and taken pride in. So maybe there's hope yet.

He decides he can't stall any longer and works to put his masked expression back on his face. Once in place he turns around towards the center of the room again. He immediately makes an attempt to break the silence by making a casual offer.

"Want an extra set of hands?" Sam inquires and gestures towards the weapons laid out on the floor. But Dean doesn't respond in any way. His head is hung slightly and his gaze is directed down at his lap and at the sharpening stone grasped in his hand. But it's a blank stare not one of inspection or thought. He's completely tuned out.

Sam takes the opportunity to survey his brother. Dean's posture is slumped and his shoulders are curved in almost protectively towards his chest. Dean's skin is paler than it should be in places yet flushed pink in others. His eyelids are at near half mast and the hard set of his jawline makes it look like he's bearing down against something painful. And there is a slight swelling to his cheeks and his hands that wasn't there even the last time he saw him which was only the night before.

The most noticeable thing though is his brother's breathing. The pace of his inhales and exhales is faster than normal and shallow in depth.

Sam once again takes advantage of his brother's checked out state and moves to him and squats down.

"Dean?" he says softly in attempt to draw his brother out. He wants to place a hand on Dean's shoulder but he's not sure how it will be received so he resists the temptation. And instead repeats his name again.

"Dean? You with me, buddy?"

For a long string of seconds there is absolutely no response so Sam decides to risk it and places a hand on his brother's shoulder and shakes it slightly. It seems to bring Dean around. His bowed head shifts and he looks up. He seems surprised to find Sam right there in front of him as if he doesn't recall how his brother got there. But the confusion is swiftly tucked away and Dean manages a half hearted reply.

"What – uh – yeah I'm right here where I've been since you barged in here. Not cool by the way."

"I'll take that under advisement."

"Whatever, Matlock," Dean replies as his expression shifts into annoyance.

"So?" Sam questions and moves from his squatting position to sit on the edge of the bed.

"So what?"

"Did you want me to work on some of the blades? You have a second stone someplace, right?"

"Thanks. But I'm good."

"It'll go faster with two of us," Sam comments as casually as possible.

"Fast wasn't what I was going for."

"Let me help," Sam tosses out too quickly. He immediately regrets the choice of words. He'd done the one thing he had reminded himself not to do about a dozen times as he had headed down the hallway towards his brother's room. One simple rule and he couldn't follow it. Don't use the word _help_ in any way, shape or form if you want the conversation to not turn ugly. Because Dean is highly allergic to it.

Sam can almost feel the shift in mood become palpable in the air of the room.

"I also kind of wanted to do this _alone_!" Dean snaps out at him. His voice is lower, grittier, now. And has a coldness to it. In that moment Sam knows there is no hope of salvaging the conversation. He involuntarily lets out a frustrated huff of air.

"Alone means get out!" Dean nearly growls at him. Its tone is harsh and threatening. Sam knows if he says anything else Dean will only dig his heels in more so he, reluctantly, rises and heads for the door.

He pauses just inside the threshold long enough to offer one last thing. His back is turned away from his brother and that makes it slightly easier to get the words out since he knows they won't be well received. And he questions if he should even say them but he decides to go for broke and pick up the pieces later.

"Believe it or not you're human Dean. And humans need help from each other from time to time. You don't have to carry the load all on your own. I'm human too and your brother to boot. That's what I'm here for. And I won't think any less of you if you want to talk. You know where to find me."

When the last word is out he starts to move again to leave the room. There's a tense silent beat as he does so. Then his brother's voice pipes up. It's as Sam expected - cold, harsh and annoyed in tone.

"Close the door on the way out!" he demands.

He does what Dean requests but not for him – for himself. He feels like he is about to lose it and leaving the door open will tempt him to about-face and deliver a few choice words to his pig headed brother.

Once outside the room he realizes he doesn't feel so well. He has to force his suddenly weighted legs to respond to the command to start walking back along the hallway. He doesn't make it far before he finds himself light headed. So he stops and leans his shoulder against the wall of the corridor for support. Then takes in a few deep deliberate breaths. It settles his head a bit but he finds his stomach is on the bad side of queasy. And he feels faintly flushed. The coolness of the wall feels good though so he turns slightly to put his back flat against its surface. The sensation quells the nausea considerably and reigns in his body temperature.

Exhaling, he slides down the wall behind him and crumbles into a seated heap on the floor. He looks around the empty hallway for nothing in particular until his attention is drawn to Dean's room as music pipes up from there. He listens for a long string of seconds to the sound of AC/DC's Thunderstruck as it radiates out from Dean's room and saturates the air of the corridor.

He's recovered his equilibrium somewhat and manages to peel himself off the frigid floor and moves the few remaining feet to the two steps which mark the bend in the hallway. He sits down on the top one and runs his palms down over his face.

Whatever it was that overtook him and made him queasy and light in the head has passed. In a way it reminds him of how he had felt at the onset of a vision. But no images or anything vision like had invaded his mind.

And the only uncomfortable thing which remains is a gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach - a sinking feeling that things are about to get even worse than they already are.

Sam tries to focus in on the feeling as it burrows its way deeper into his gut and does his best to block out everything else. He attempts to get a hold on it so he can examine it more closely and gain some specifics. He is not rewarded with anything of great detail. But one thing does show itself to him – it's hazy around the edges but the gist of it comes through with clarity.

He braces against the realization of it.

Something is seriously wrong with his brother. Sure he's grieving deeply but there's something more. Sam can't pinpoint it precisely, can't even really begin to decipher it, but it exists.

And Dean just might be too weary, too broken, to fight it.

 _To Be Continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary**

Mary Winchester has been killed on a hunt. Her now second death has hit both of her son's hard. But one of them may never recover from the loss when grief manifests itself in an unexpected way.

 **Warnings**

Possible character death but can't say for sure one way or another because that would take away from the story. But be full aware I have written a lot of fanfiction for many different fandoms (here under several names and in other places) and have ended stories both ways – with surviving and not surviving. So maybe. Maybe not. So thought I would mention it in case that uncertainty doesn't work for somebody.

 **Characters**

Sam, Dean and some Castiel.

 **Author's Note**

Thanks for reading!

 **I-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-I**

 **Heartsick**

 **Chapter Two**

Sam has lost track of the days. And the nights for that matter. Four days at least. Maybe six or has it become a full week? Could it be possible that it's more?

They have all begun to blur one into the other. Yet somehow at the same time they feel like they drag on and on with no end in sight.

He'd have to consult a calendar for any sort of clue. Even then he's not confident he would get the right answer.

How ever much time it's been since that afternoon he brought a turkey sandwich to his brother's room and managed to get himself promptly kicked out the situation hasn't gotten any better. In fact, it's so much worse.

He can count the number of times Dean has come out of his bedroom on one hand with fingers left over. He's knocked. He's tried to barge in only to find the door locked. He's tried to talk to him through the door. He even called him on the phone once from just three rooms away. He's left food in a covered tray outside the door. It almost always goes untouched. He's claiming lack of appetite.

On those rare occasions when he emerges he does look a little green around the edges and many times has a hand pressed to his stomach. And he always claims that just the thought of food makes him want to hurl. Yet he seems to have no trouble draining a liquor bottle. He has developed a bit of a cough though so Sam wonders if maybe it's possible Dean has made himself sick by not caring for himself properly – physically or mentally.

Dean's experienced in the fine art of torture and he uses that weapon most deftly and harshly on himself. Sam knows that is, in part, what Dean is doing even if Dean doesn't realize it himself. He even uses triggers to get the ball rolling. Like that damn picture of him and their mother from when he was four that he always seems to have on him somewhere. And now another more recently taken one has joined it to make a set. Sam's seen him staring at them when Dean wasn't aware that Sam was within sight. And every single time it visibly pains him. But he can't seem to let himself tuck them away for long before pulling them out again.

Sam's not doing as well as he was either. As much as it shames him to admit it he thinks that he might be doing better if he wasn't constantly surrounded by Dean's misery. He's worried about his brother and he wants to help. But a part of him is pissed. There are moments when he just wants to lay into Dean or possibly grab onto his shirt and shake him until he comes of out this stupor. Hell he'd throw a punch and land it square on if he thought Dean was in any condition to withstand it unscathed and that it would do any good in the end. He doesn't even seem to be trying or to even care enough to _start_ trying. And Sam's not only angry at him for not feeling he's worth taking care of but for how it's affecting Sam's ability to heal his own wound.

He feels a little guilty for that last part but there's no denying the anger is there.

Sam recognizes that their grief is different and their ways of coping with things are often polar opposites.

For Sam their mother, the first time around, had been more of a concept since she had died before he could even remember her. The idea or image of who she had been was crafted by their father and Dean talking about her. So when she came back it was like meeting a stranger and getting to know her like two adult strangers would learn about one another.

But Dean remembered her – at least the way in which a four year old can grasp onto things. He even has a few specific memories of interacting with her as his mother. And when she was returned to them his memory of her while he had been a young child conflicted with who she was now through his adult eyes. So the person she was in his memory – the one frozen in time from his four year old perception - was shattered. And Sam believes that although Dean was overjoyed by the idea of having his Mom back he still had to deal with the collapse of the memory he had carried of her for over three decades. So it became a tangled up jumble of happiness and disillusionment.

It boiled down to that he and Dean had lost the same thing, their mother. But, individually, that translated into two vastly different things because who she had been to each of them had taken root in their hearts and minds from their own unique angles.

Sam slowly pushes out a heavy breath. It's exhausting just thinking about it.

He reminds himself he needs to get out of the bunker more – get some fresh air and clear his head on a regular basis. He does go out on supply runs and other short trips. But he doesn't feel comfortable leaving his brother alone for too long. He doesn't really know why it matters. It's not like Dean is a great conversationalist at the moment. In fact during the small number of times they've talked Dean was so fatigued there were a few occasions where he'd almost nodded off mid conversation.

But somewhere in there amongst being lost in his own grief his brother did take the time to come to him and ask how he was doing. Sam had told him he was managing and told him about some of the things he was doing to help release the emotional energy and stress.

But, of course, when Sam tried to reverse the discussion Dean's walls had immediately gone up and the reflexive _I'm fine_ responses had come out in full force.

Sam shakes his head a little and rubs at his tired eyes with his equally tired fingertips. He's been staring at the screen of his laptop for far too long for it to possibly be healthy for his eyesight. But he hopes his efforts will pay off.

He leans back in the chair he's been sitting in for god only knows how long and stretches his arms up over his head. Then sets about working the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. It's, for the most part, a cover so he can steal a glance across to the other side of the room.

Dean had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, about an hour earlier. Sam had been intently focused on the computer screen in front of him and the sudden arrival of Dean's deep voice breaking the silence, asking if he was overdosing on porn again, had nearly caused Sam to fall out of his chair. He had either been so focused he had tuned everything out or Dean was in super stealth mode.

Either way Sam was grateful he had come out of his room. The timing was perfect as Sam has spent a good portion of the day scouring the internet for some easy jobs they could do. It would be a good distraction and get them out of the bunker even if only for a short while. They both could use it. And all the ones he had found Dean could easily handle even in his current physical state. He also hopes that being back out hunting will reignite the spark in his brother.

Sam finishes his almost comically exaggerated stretching and clears his throat. Then braves breaking the silence of the room.

"So, I've found a few quick jobs for us. One of them looks like a good old salt and burn and that newbie kid we met, Glenn, he wanted to know if we'd show him the ropes of one of those. So we could maybe take him with."

Dean only shrugs and briefly glances his way to display an expression of distaste in response. So Sam doesn't push back for anything verbal and continues.

"Well, there's other stuff here. If you're not in the salt and burn kind of mind. Take a look," Sam offers. He picks up the printouts off the table and brings them over to where his brother sits in one of the armchairs near the bookshelves. He holds them out but Dean just glares at them like he's not sure what exactly he's supposed to do with them. So Sam extends another offer.

"Your choice. Whichever one you want. No debate from me."

"Whatever. I don't really care. You pick."

Dean says the words but Sam gets the distinct impression his brother would prefer not to go at all. In fact, Sam's not sure Dean has any plans of leaving the cushy chair he's currently seated in with his feet propped up on the edge of a bookcase any time in the foreseeable future.

There's a six pack carton of beer on the floor nearby. Three of the slots are no longer filled. Their corresponding empties are set up on one of the shelves of the bookcase. The fourth and fifth are still in the carton unopened. And the sixth is currently in Dean's hand, looking to be about halfway gone. Sam's just grateful it's beer and not something a hell of a lot stiffer. Thank goodness for small favors.

"Come on, Dean, couple of milk runs. Get us back in the field. Stretch out our legs. And get out of this place. Nothing too heavy and nothing more than a three hour drive."

"Maybe tomorrow," Dean replies but it's clear he has no intention or interest in going then either.

"You could do any of these jobs in your sleep Dean. But I think it'll help your mood."

His brother's voice has a newly added annoyed tone when he replies.

"If it's so simple and you've got back up what do you need me for? Take the newbie if you're so gung ho about going. I'll take a pass."

To this Sam responds right back with his own annoyed tone.

" _What do I need you for?_ Oh I don't know. Maybe because you have a shitload you could teach Glenn. And, ya know, I like the back up I already have not some green hunter."

"If it'll get you to stop bugging me for five minutes I'll go. Otherwise, see you when you get back."

Sam stands there for a long beat, stack of papers still held out to his brother. It isn't until Dean looks away and stays that way that Sam lowers his arm. Then speaks up.

"Way to help a guy out. Ya know maybe I wanted to get out of here for a while. Maybe have a distraction to get my mind off of it. Did you ever consider that Dean? That I'm not just digging up these jobs just for you. But that maybe I'm doing it for myself too. You're not the only one who lost a mother. You're not the only one trying to wrap their head around it."

Sam regrets the words as soon as they exit his mouth – at least mostly. And clearly they have an impact on Dean too. Because he's out of his seat in a heartbeat. And in the next he's planted himself right in front of Sam. Then his voice pipes up.

"Whoa! Hold up a minute. I've asked you if you were alright and you said you we're handling it."

"Yeah. By the skin of my teeth."

"No matter how many times I hear that phrase it still creeps me out," Dean mumbles, more to himself than to Sam.

"Get serious, Dean."

"Fine," he grumbles out.

"Just because I say I'm handling it doesn't mean I don't need to talk about it at all. But you haven't exactly checked back in a lot."

"Yeah because I respected your answer the first time around, unlike some people, and, therefore, thought that you might want to deal with it privately. I was respecting your space, Sam. And I thought you knew that if you came to me I'd do everything I could."

"Exactly."

Dean doesn't respond immediately. Sam can tell by the lost expression which comes over his face that his brother is having one of those moments where his awareness is playing catch up. So it takes a few extra beats before he reacts verbally to what Sam has just said.

"I am so damn confused right now. Whatever it is that you're trying to say just say it because this little game you're playing is starting to tick me off."

"You'd help me if I needed it, right?" Sam asks even though he already knows the answer.

"You know I would. At least you should."

"The problem is that you're not letting me do the same for you."

"I'm fine Sam."

"No. You're not."

"Yes. I am. And that's the end of it."

"That's bullshit!"

Once again Dean takes a silent beat to process and keep up. But after moment he speaks up.

"Let me see if I've got this straight - I ask if you're doing alright – you say you've got it – I respect your answer because I trust you'll tell me if the situation changes – and somehow I'm in the wrong. Really?"

"I never said you were in the wrong."

"Interesting. Because that's sure the hell what it sounded like over here."

"I'm just saying that...I'm...," Sam starts to say but the words seem to have lost their way.

"What exactly? Spit it out already."

The force in Dean's voice is enough to push the words he wants to say back into his grasp.

"That I can see you're having a rough time and wish that you'd take better care of yourself. And, maybe, that could include talking to me to get some of it out. It's eating at you. And maybe it would help me too."

"What good is talking going to do Sam? Huh? It doesn't change anything. If I talk or don't talk it's not going bring her back."

"You can't go around your grief Dean. You have to go through it. Like it or not."

"Okay, thank you, Self Help Book Volume One. Cuz I didn't know that already. I'm not an idiot Sam."

"No. You're not. You're just acting like one."

"Excuse me?"

"Just because you don't want to deal with something doesn't make it go away. You're only making it worse."

"Who says I'm not dealing with it."

"Dean, you've been hold up in your room for I don't even know how many days now. And when you're not you're totally out of it, man. Like off in catatonic-land. You don't eat – well anything except meals of the liquid variety. You don't even seem to care about hunting. Yeah I can tell that you're dealing with it really well."

"You're way out of line Sam," his brother nearly growls back at him.

"Dammit! Why won't you just talk to me. I'm your brother, Dean."

"Yeah my little brother who needs to back the hell off!"

"God, you are so fucking stubborn. What good does putting on an act do if I can see right through it."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"I know you, Dean, and I know this is gnawing away at you. And I'm trying to have your back. But you're not exactly making it easy."

"I _never_ _asked_ you to be my shrink! I'm not a child. I don't need my hand held. So why don't you take your little list there and your snot nosed hunter in training and go salt and burn the night away."

"God, you're just itching for a fight aren't you?" Sam snaps out even though, once again, he already well knows the answer.

"Maybe I am. Do you really want to find out. Hmm?"

"I don't want to fight you, Dean. I'm trying to help you."

"For the last time! I'm fine. I don't need yours or anyone else's help. I'm not a head case."

Sam parts his lips to argue the point but Dean's voice cuts off what he was going to say.

"Don't! Just don't! Not another word!" There is fury in Dean's eyes and the glare he fixes Sam with is damn near lethal.

Sam has to clench his jaw shut to resist the urge to say anything further. Once it is clear that Dean's command has been followed he heads towards the doorway into the hall. He pauses at the threshold long enough to turn and face Sam again. His voice is low and beyond serious when he dishes out one last warning.

"Oh and Sam, I swear to motherfucking god if you bring this shit up again you're going to end up with a bullet hole in you."

And in the next breath he's gone.

Sam collapses into the chair that Dean has abandoned. He's not sure if he wants to scream or cry. He's boiling over with frustration and overwhelmed by sadness all in the exact same instant.

He ponders how it's possible for someone to be so infuriating and so tragic all rolled into one.

He sinks down further in the seat and drops his head back so it rests on the top of the chair.

"How did we get here, brother?" he whispers out to the empty room around him.

This time, though, he doesn't already know the answer to his own question.

Sam lets his eyelids fall closed.

And for the first time in a long time he prays.

 _To Be Continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary**

Mary Winchester has been killed on a hunt. Her now second death has hit both of her son's hard. But one of them may never recover from the loss when grief manifests itself in an unexpected way.

 **Warnings**

Possible character death but can't say for sure one way or another because that would take away from the story. But be full aware I have written a lot of fanfiction for many different fandoms (here under several names and in other places) and have ended stories both ways – with surviving and not surviving. So maybe. Maybe not. Thought I would mention it in case that uncertainty doesn't work for somebody.

 **Characters**

Sam, Dean and some Castiel.

 **Author's Note**

Thanks for reading!

 **I-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-I**

 **Heartsick**

 **Chapter Three**

Dean lowers the hood of the Impala and moves over to the rolling tool chest which stands a few feet away. He deposits the wrench grasped in his hand down onto the top of the chest and picks up one of the rags from the pile there. He wipes away as much of the grease and grime from his hands as possible. Then tosses the rag back with the others. As he does so his gaze catches sight of his cell phone which he set down beside the rag pile earlier.

A piece of him is tugged to call Sam. Dean's been down here in the garage since the blow up they had a few hours ago.

Dean feels like he's worked on every vehicle in the joint since then. He's sorted through and moved around all the old parts he's scraped up from salvage yards over the last several months. He's managed to collect spare parts for most of the cars. The vehicles are on the older side – the much older side – and it's always better to get the required parts before he actually needs them so they are on hand in case something busts on one of them. They might be hard to find in a pinch.

So he's spent the evening and now into the night giving the inventory of vehicles a good once over and then creating a storage area in the corner of the garage to keep the spare parts in. The last hour he's spent on the Impala – giving her every tune up in the book even a very overdue oil change. She's ready and raring to go. He owed her a little TLC. He's neglected her as of late. As the thought crosses his mind he moves back to her side.

"Sorry we haven't been out on the open road lately, Baby," he offers and gives a gentle pat to the hood of the car.

His apology to the Impala comes so much more easily than he knows his apology to his brother will be to deliver. The thought draws his gaze back to the cell that sits on top of the tool chest. His irritation has waned considerably and he's not seeing pure red anymore. And he regrets his dismissal when Sam reached out to him about his own grief in there somewhere amongst the heated words they had exchanged. He stares at the phone for a long moment weighing whether or not to pick it up.

Sometimes he finds apologizing over the phone is so much easier than finding the right thing to say in person. He's not even sure he knows exactly what he is apologizing for – only that the majority of their argument was his fault. He knows he's not the greatest of company right now. He just doesn't feel like talking – can't find the words, can't give recognition out loud to what has happened.

This time around he's not being so brave.

He just can't seem to get the fact that their mother is gone again out of his head. All of it cycles through his mind over and over like's it's caught up in a non stop loop that no matter what he does he can't shut off. It's like the best hits of Mary Winchester and her deaths.

At its onset he's mentally catapulted right back to being that four year old who had a mother one minute and was motherless the next. Then it moves on to the moments in his life that his mother should of have been in but was absent from. And the intense ache that left inside of him.

Next it's always her return. For the briefest of moments there's a glimmer of pure joy. But it's quickly extinguished by the unexpected complexities of having her back after her being gone for three decades – for most of his life really.

And, finally, the call from the hunter who had delivered the news of her death replays in his head. He remembers every word, every syllable, and feels the devastation flood over him as if it's brand new.

Then the regret, the gnawing guilt, sets in. They hadn't been with her on that hunt. If they had been maybe they could have stopped it. He'll never know now and that's really hard to swallow. She was family – she was their god damn mother – and they couldn't keep her safe. _He_ couldn't keep her safe. That was his job after all – look after family at all costs.

He let her down. He let Dad down. And he especially let his little brother down. Sam finally got the chance to get to know their mother. To form his own memories of her. To ask questions he always wanted to ask her but never could because she was gone way before he even uttered his first word. And now he's been cheated all over again.

Then with less than the passage of a single heartbeat the loop resets inside his head and he's back in his four year old self again. And the cycles begins anew.

He can't make it stop. And with each repetition it seems to pick up momentum – cycling through his mind faster and faster until he's nearly dizzy from it. He feels himself closing in on crossing the threshold into insanity.

The room he stands in suddenly feels like it's closing in on him too. There's not as much air as there was only a few moments before. And the walls and ceiling are all too confining.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes and tries to settle the queasiness rampaging through his head and stomach. But no relief comes.

So he moves back over to the tool chest and pulls open the bottom drawer. He sifts through the items there and shortly finds what he's looking for. As he closes the drawer he shakes the flask in his hand, not remembering if he'd replenished it. Fortunately, it's mostly full. No matter though if it wasn't he's sure he has a bottle or two stashed away in the garage somewhere. So it isn't hard to top off if the need arises.

He trudges over to the Impala and leans against her. Then opens the flask and takes a long swig. The familiar burn of the liquor as it goes down feels a bit like a sliver of well earned punishment for his failure. But the pit of his inadequacy is deep and ebony and ever growing it seems. At this point there's no hope of ever being able to fill it in. He'll never be able to do enough penance. That mile marker is so far gone it's no longer visible in the rearview mirror.

He takes another drink from the flask and clamps his eyelids shut as it scorches its way down his throat. But the sensation doesn't burn away any at the perpetual cycle of memories playing in his head.

He continues to take more draws from the container in hopes a bit more will at least take the edge off. And before he knows it the flask in his hand is empty. But the whiskey hasn't numbed away anything but the lining of his throat.

He ponders for a moment where it was exactly he put those stashed bottles. But it's half-hearted and fleeting. Because he knows no matter what he does or does not do the past will never relent – it will never let him go.

The urge to call Sam spikes in him again. The only thing he has to offer anyone at all is an apology to his little brother. And in that instant he chooses the phone call over the hunt for more whiskey.

So he straightens up from his reclined position leaned back against Baby's hood and takes a step towards the tool chest where the cell resides.

But his journey is cut short as an intense pain shoots through his chest. It feels like lightening striking inside him – exploding against his ribcage. The sharp jolt and sheer power of it steals his breath away and causes his legs to become unsteady. The flask slips out of his hand and drops to the floor.

He hears himself gasp out in pain but it seems so far away. His ears are ringing and the only other thing he can hear is the sound of his own racing uneven heartbeat.

The room is spinning three sixty around him and nausea takes a vice grip on him. He finds himself stumbling to stay upright.

He desperately reaches his hand out in search of the solidness of the Impala's hood. He doesn't make it before an even more intense bolt of pain seizes him.

"Uh – fuck!" he spits out as the weight of it settles on his chest and locks his air away.

The pressure of it forces him down onto his knees. Even if he didn't feel as if he was being crushed by a hundred feet of water his legs are too weak to hold him up any longer. He swallows down on the enormous lump which has worked its way up his throat. At first to push away the nausea rising up and then, second, in hopes of it helping to open his airway.

The nausea stays slightly at bay but it does nothing for his breathing. He can hear his own wheezing over the rush of blood pulsing through his skull. It's pathetic sounding. And he winces at how he must look right now.

That thought is quickly overtaken though by the need to overcome being betrayed by his own body. He grasps hold of a weapon he has wielded a lot lately. The familiar mantra pipes up in his head. _One full breath in and one full breath out – steady the pace – and stay calm in the head._

It fails him this time. And soon he can't even stay on his knees anymore. He crumples to the floor and lies there with one hand clutched to the middle of his chest and the other braced down hard against the frigid cement floor.

He knows now that this is something more than anything he's experienced over the last few weeks. And as he bears down against the pain and struggles under the suffocating weight his mind pulls up a memory from so many years now gone by – drawn to the surface by its similarity to what's happening to him now.

It comes in a series of quick mental exposures – like a photo flip book in his mind. First, a dark damp basement. Then the image of a taser grasped in his hand. A flash of a rawhead attacking. Next he sees himself falling back onto the flooded basement floor. Then watches himself scramble for the taser that has fallen from his grasp. Sees himself recover and fire the weapon. Then for a beat there is only gray. It's followed by the image of him in a hospital bed. In the next he stands on a stage - a so called faith healer holding a hand pressed to his head.

Then there is gray washing everything out for a few beats as the flashback releases him back into the present. He gasps out for air as if there hasn't been any entering his body for quite some time.

The realization settles into him.

He's pretty sure he's having a heart attack.

The sensation of the cold hard garage floor underneath him sinks back in. And he knows he needs to do something. He needs to move – he has to call Sam. Because he knows he's not getting out of this one on his own.

His brain sends the command to his body to sit up but his muscles won't respond. So he decides he needs smaller goals. With some effort he manages to roll over onto his stomach and then gets his upper body propped up on his elbows. He tries again to sit up but the weight on him is too great and there is no supply of oxygen to draw off of.

So he forms a plan B. He just needs to cross the five feet which lies between the Impala and the tool chest where his cell is located. Normally, not exactly anything that should be considered a lofty goal or an accomplishment of any kind but right now if he makes it he deserves a god damn freaking gold medal.

Using his forearms and elbows he drags himself over the filthy floor inch by inch. His legs are no help. They are mostly numb and what little he can feel of them weighs more than the Impala.

It seems like an eternity before he's finally arrives next to the bottom of the tool chest. But he does make it with a lot of effort and a whole lot more cursing.

One more time he commands his muscles to cooperate so he can sit up. But they aren't listening and he's too exhausted to find another way. So he reaches out and up, stretching his arm to its limit towards the top of the multi drawer chest. His fingertips brush the edge of the cell but instead of grasping onto it all he manages to do is bump it. The phone tips over the edge of the toolbox and falls. It splashes down right in the pan of motor oil left over from the tune up on the Impala.

"Son of a bitch!" he manages to mumble.

The effort sends a wave of light headed-ness and intense ache flooding through him. And he's back to being laid out flat on the floor. His vision grays and he feels consciousness slipping through his grasp.

Then suddenly the iciness of the cement floor against the bare skin of his cheek brings it crashing back to him.

He's not sure how long he's laid there. Something tells him he passed out. But was it only a handful of seconds or full on minutes – or worse, even longer?

After he's recovered slightly he goes for the phone again. He fumbles considerably but, ultimately, manages to fish it out of the oil pan. He struggles to keep a grasp on it since one hand is covered with oil and the other has seemingly lost its dexterity. He has to use both hands to just turn the cell over so it is face up.

The screen is dark and he hits the home button to wake it up. But nothing happens. He tries hitting the power button on and off several times but still no success. It must have gotten oil inside it. He let it sit there too long.

An oddly timed thought strikes him. He should have listened to his brother about what's her name – what was it, Sarah? - Suzie maybe? – no wait – Siri – that was it. At the time the idea of it seriously creeped him out but if he had it activated it he'd already have Sam on the line. He wouldn't have had to even reach for the damn phone – just spoken aloud – although that wasn't his best event either at the moment. Hard to talk when you can't even catch your breath long enough to complete a full cycle of inhaling and exhaling.

The loss of the phone as an option sinks into him. He might be in serious trouble here. He can't use the phone to call and Sam won't come looking for him any time soon. It's the middle of the night and his brother had said something about turning in early.

He concludes that he only has two options – either lie there to die alone and pitifully or get his ass up off the floor and go in search of Sam or another phone.

The distance between where the cars are stored and the living area of the bunker suddenly seems expansive. His legs are like lead. His lungs are collapsing in on themselves. And his head is so light the room is fading in and out. His vision flickers, going dim and then bright again, over and over. And his sight is deficient of its peripheral vision.

He determines he needs to focus all his energy on his sole objective but even that is difficult to keep a solid hold on at the moment.

 _S_ o he repeats the goal over and over inside his head to ground himself.

 _Find Sam. Find Sam. Find Sam._

His body truly feels like it's cast out of lead. But he _has_ to do this. Within reach stands a low pile of tires he had stacked earlier. He hooks a hand into the hollow of the center of the top one and finally manages to heave himself into sitting up. Once seated he leans his forehead against the tires, closes his eyes and tries to collect himself.

He has to muster up what it's going to take to get himself on his feet. Because right at this second that seems damn near impossible.

He can feel moisture forming in his eyes. And he curses the fact that it's there and that he can't stop more from rising to the surface.

An odd mixture of sadness and anger slips over him.

Sadness because this has the all too familiar sensation of being on death's door and he has suddenly realized maybe he's not ready to go after all. He wants more time hunting and hanging out with his little brother. He's not done quite yet.

The anger is crystal clear in its origins. He doesn't want to go out this way – not like this. He wants to go out like a warrior, battling every step of the way, gun or blade in hand and calling out to the monsters to come and get it.

The anger seems to light a fire in him. And he realizes he has to get to his feet while the energy still holds heat. Maybe he can use it to propel his ten ton body into standing if he draws on it.

He does his best to take in a deep breath and release it in preparation. And then latches on to the molten anger that the thought _not like this_ sends coursing through his veins. He allows it to fuel his will until it's powerful enough to overtake the refusal of his body to function. If he's going to do this it's now or never.

So he locks onto the sole objective inside his head.

 _Find Sam._

And gives it all he's got to try to stand.

 _To Be Continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary**

Mary Winchester has been killed on a hunt. Her now second death has hit both of her son's hard. But one of them may never recover from the loss when grief manifests itself in an unexpected way.

 **Warnings**

Possible character death but can't say for sure one way or another because that would take away from the story. But be full aware I have written a lot of fanfiction for many different fandoms (here under several names and in other places) and have ended stories both ways – with surviving and not surviving. So maybe. Maybe not. So thought I would mention it in case that uncertainty doesn't work for somebody.

 **Characters**

Sam, Dean and some Castiel.

 **Author's Note**

Thanks for reading!

 **I-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-I**

 **Heartsick**

 **Chapter Four**

Sam lifts his head away from the pillow slightly and listens. Something woke him up. But he's not sure exactly what. He thought maybe there had been a noise that didn't belong.

Some sliver of his brain is always on alert even in sleep. And most times he can go from the depths of slumber into a fighting stance in under ten seconds. Dean had taught him that. The hard way. It was one of the many disadvantages of not having your own space with a door you could close and lock to keep your pain in the ass brother out. Not that a locked door would have slowed Dean down much but it would have given him a better chance.

There had been many a night in some dive motel room when he had awoken to find himself under attack. It would be Dean deliberately rousing him and squaring off so he could gauge Sam's reaction time and fighting skills when freshly awoken. It had annoyed the ever loving shit out of him at the time. But now with all they had been through and how many enemies they have collected over the years since it has served him well. And he's grateful for the training his annoying big brother had put him through.

Not hearing anything of concern he retrieves his cell from the table beside the bed. He checks the notifications on it to see if maybe there had been a alert sound from it which had been what had awoken him. But there isn't anything new.

He makes a disgruntled sound as he notes that it's twelve minutes past one. He deposits the phone on the table and flops back down into the softness of his pillow. He hopes he can fall back asleep quickly. He has a boatload of research lined up for later in the day – _much_ later in the day. Blowing out a calming breath he closes his eyes and tries to relax.

But finds he's rather uncomfortable now. His chest aches a little and he's kind of queasy. He makes another grumble of displeasure. All he needs is to get a cold or the flu. He tries to ignore the discomfort long enough so that he can fall back asleep.

But after several long torturous minutes of trying the queasiness hasn't relented much. He mutters a few curse words under his breath and throws back the blankets. Sitting up he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Then scrubs a palm down over his face and fidgets against the queasiness a bit.

Finally, he gets up, flips on the light, and heads over to the desk thinking he might have something tucked away that he can take for his stomach and head. He's awake now so might as well sift though the virtual grab bag of medications he's collected in the drawer.

By the time he has trudged his way over to the desk he's awake enough to know he's not going to be going back to sleep. He's alert in mind and body. Pulling the drawer open he rummages through the assortment of bottles and boxes there and comes up with something that may do the trick. But before he even unscrews the lid he realizes he's not queasy or aching anymore. Now he's just confused and wide awake.

"What the hell," he mutters. It was there one minute and gone the next. He tosses the bottle back in the drawer and looks around. Deciding that he's already up he might as well do something productive or at least something that might wear him out enough to be sleepy again.

He sighs and decides that he might as well go start on that research. Maybe get a few hours under his belt and then come back and sleep. It's not like working while tired is anything new after all.

He pulls on a pair of jeans, his shoes and a long sleeved t-shirt. Then grabs his cell from the bedside table. On the way to the door he scoops up his laptop from the desk. After opening the door so that the light from the corridor filters in he flips the light inside the bedroom off and heads out.

He moves along the hallway at a lazy pace. There's no real reason to hurry.

He glances down at the screen of the cell phone in his hand when the device emits a soft alert sound. He slows his pace even more and accesses the incoming email message. It's nothing urgent so he stuffs the phone into his jean's pocket and picks up his pace. As he comes around the bend of the corridor he lifts his head, leveling his gaze up ahead.

And stops dead.

His entire body goes numb and the laptop falls from his hand to the floor like a brick. The _thwack_ sound it makes upon impact with the ground reverberates off the walls.

He is frozen by the sight at the other end of the hall.

Dean is sprawled out on the floor. His upper body turned away from Sam's direction. His head is lolled to the side so his face is not visible. The rest of his tall form is a tangled heap of crooked torso and splayed limbs. And he's not moving - _at all_.

For an instant Sam actually prays that his brother is passed out drunk. Because in some twisted sad way that's better than the alternative.

The shock finally wanes a bit and Sam realizes he's just standing there, staring. His body hasn't yet caught up to his mind and he basically stumbles his way into a flat out run down the length of the corridor.

He's down on his knees before he has even really stopped running. Momentum behind him he slides across the floor the last few feet to where Dean lies.

"Dean!" he cries out as he latches a hand onto his brother's shoulder. He carefully rolls him over so he's facing up. There's no reaction. Dean's eyes are closed and his facial features are slack. His skin is a sickly tone. And there's no breath going in or out of his body.

"Shit!" Sam curses out. He taps his fingertips hard against Dean's cheek several times in a row in attempt to rouse him. When no reaction comes he rubs the knuckles of his fisted hand firmly over his brother's sternum. At the same time delivers a verbal command.

"Dean! Dean! You need to breathe. Dammit take a breath!"

There's a still moment then Dean's body jerks as he gasps for air. A cough follows in its wake.

"You're alright. Take a few breaths. Nice and slow in and out."

His brother does his best to follow the instruction and after a long moment he's in slightly better control of his breathing.

"Talk to me. What's going on?" Sam urges quietly. He needs to figure out what is happening in order to help.

Dean's eyelids peek open. But after only a few seconds he is clearly struggling to keep them that way. His green eyes are a bit wild momentarily. But his gaze finally fixes and finds Sam's above him. He moves his mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

"Talk to me, Dean, tell me what's going on," Sam encourages more firmly this time. Dean makes another attempt at speaking and this time he manages to force the words to come out. His voice trembles a bit.

"Sam, I think I'm having a heart attack."

"What?"

"It's like...like...there's cement inside in my chest. Crushing it. Hard to breath." The words come out rough and there is fear that slips out through in the tone. Sam knows if Dean has failed to conceal it then he's in a really bad shape.

"You think you can walk?" he questions. He knows that Dean will insist he can but if it turns out he's lying or too far gone to know any better he'll simply carry his brother.

"Well, I got all the way here all by myself. Wouldn't have bet money on that either. So who knows," he manages to explain between gulps of air.

Sam suddenly notices that Dean is fully clothed. He suspects his brother hasn't even attempted to sleep. And they are in the opposite direction from Dean's bedroom so he was off somewhere.

"All the way here? Where did you come from?" Sam asks as he helps position Dean so they can make a go at getting him up off the floor.

"Working on Baby," he responds while doing his best to at least contribute something to the process of going from flat on his ass to kneeling.

"You were all the way down in the garage?" Sam questions in disbelief and scrambles to his feet. He maintains a firm hold on the front of Dean's shirt as well as his arm to keep him from falling back over onto the floor.

"Need to move cars closer. Lot closer. Took like a damn week to get here," Dean huffs out.

"Dammit Dean. Why didn't you call me?" Sam scolds him and hauls his brother up to his feet in one fell swoop. Dean teeters precariously. Sam catches him with an arm around the waist as he's headed towards keeling over.

"Apparently, cell phones and motor oil are a bad combo," Dean replies and grabs for a handful of Sam's shirt to steady himself. It only lasts a few beats before Dean is fighting to shake off Sam's support. But it's clear he doesn't have enough strength to accomplish the task. So Sam adjusts his hold more securely around his brother's waist and takes Dean's arm and slings it over his shoulder.

"Alright. It's okay. Save your energy. You can tell me all about it when you're feeling better," he urges in attempt to get his brother to not fight his assistance further. Dean nods his head in a rare moment of compliance. As they start to make their way down the hallway Sam speaks up again.

"Let's get you to the hospital."

"Hospital?" his brother questions. He makes it sound like the idea is absurd.

"Yes, Dean, the hospital. That place you take people when they tell you they think they're having a heart attack. And don't even start with the refusing to go shit. You're going. Either riding shotgun or tied up in the back. Those are your options."

"You'd tie up someone having a heart attack. How heartless are you? See what I did there?"

"Maybe they can fix that lame sense of humor of yours while we're there," Sam teases him back.

"Not lame. So doesn't need fixing," Dean replies but there is no bite behind it. His hand is clutched against his chest. His walking is more like a stumble. And he's struggling to keep his head lifted up.

"Stay with me Dean," Sam encourages inside a whisper.

"Trying."

"You're doing great. We'll be at the car soon."

The closer they get to the garage the more heavily Dean is relying on Sam to keep him vertical. They don't speak any further. Sam's mind is too consumed with worry to speak. And it's clear Dean can't spare the energy to do so.

So they keep lumbering clumsily along. And, finally, they enter the storage area and make their way towards the Impala. Sam notes there's a pan filled with motor oil and an open oil bottle set off to the side of the car. Dean's cell phone is discarded on the ground nearby. And there's a flask laying on the floor near the front tire of the Impala. The scene and Dean's earlier words about working on Baby prompts him to finally speak again.

"Dean, did you finish what you were doing here? Are we okay to drive it?"

His brother bobs his head up and down confirming that they are good to go. Sam steers them to the passenger side of the Impala and opens the door. He manages to maneuver Dean down into the seat. Then closes the door and jogs around the front of the vehicle. But suddenly he realizes he's missing something important. Dean might hold the answer but he'll see if he can find it quickly on his own first.

"Keys? Where are the damn keys?" Sam growls out through clenched teeth. He curses himself for not thinking to grab the extra set. He pivots around and visually searches. Not finding them in that direction he pivots the other way. He finally spots them on top of the toolbox.

In the next breath he's in the car, behind the steering wheel. He steals a glance over at Dean, noting that his brother is slumped over towards the passenger side door. His head is lolled to the right and rested against the window. His eyes are clamped shut and his jawline is rigid. He's struggling so much to breath that it's coming out in a near pant. That is, if it can even be categorized as breathing. It's wet sounding and wheezy.

It propels Sam back to the task at hand. He slips the key into the ignition and turns it, bringing the engine rumbling awake. He shifts into gear and opens his mouth to speak. But nothing intelligible comes out over his suddenly parched lips. He swallows down hard and runs his tongue over the dryness. Then tries again. This time he gets the words out. He's surprised that his voice has not betrayed him as he suspected it might. The tone is full of determination and belief and devoid of any hint of the tidal wave of emotion he's currently submerged in.

"I'm going to get you to the hospital. You're gonna be alright," he reassures.

"Liar," Dean's voice rasps out in reply.

Sam finds he wants to rebut the one word challenge but the knowledge that it's possibly true paralyzes his vocal chords. So he is silent and presses his foot down on the gas pedal.

Once he has navigated around the other vehicles and arrives at the doorway to the outside Sam is grateful they took the time to rig the door to the storage area with a crudely crafted remote control. He snatches up the device and a few seconds later the door is open and they are driving outside. Another quick flip of a switch on the remote and the door is sealed again.

Sam steals another glance at his brother as he steers the Impala to the left to head for the main road. He doesn't like what he sees. Dean's eyes are half closed and the portion of his green eyes that is visible lacks focus. There's a sheen of sweat making his face glossy. And his breaths are clearly only coming with great effort.

Finally, they reach the main roadway and Sam turns the Impala right. It's drizzling out and the blacktop is wet but he stills lays his foot firmly down on the pedal. He can handle the vehicle. It's what is happening to Dean that is causing him trouble.

Sam finds his voice again and speaks up – quiet but strong.

"Hang in there, brother. I'm gonna to get you some help."

But there is no response in return.

 _To Be Continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary**

Mary Winchester has been killed on a hunt. Her now second death has hit both of her son's hard. But one of them may never recover from the loss when grief manifests itself in an unexpected way.

 **Warnings**

Possible character death but can't say for sure one way or another because that would take away from the story. But be full aware I have written a lot of fanfiction for many different fandoms (here under several names and in other places) and have ended stories both ways – with surviving and not surviving. So maybe. Maybe not. So thought I would mention it in case that uncertainty doesn't work for somebody.

 **Characters**

Sam, Dean and some Castiel.

 **Author's Note**

Thanks for reading!

 **I-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-I**

 **Heartsick**

 **Chapter Five**

They had taken Dean from his arms an eternity ago.

His brother had been practically lifeless by the time the Impala had screeched to a stop in front of the emergency room entrance at the nearest hospital. Sam had carried Dean inside desperately searching for help. All the while calling out for someone to save his brother.

Then in the blink of an eye he had gone from standing alone in the hallway holding Dean's limp body to being surrounded by what seemed like half the hospital staff.

It happened so fast he never got to tell Dean he was there, that he'd be right outside the exam room, and that everything was going to be okay. Because his arms were emptied, his big brother pulled away, so quickly he hadn't had the chance to get the words out.

Now he sits on the floor in the corner of a small empty waiting room. His knees are drawn up to his chest and his head rests against the wall. And there's an ache deep inside his core that threatens to devour what's left of him.

He wants to check in at the desk again for any kind of update. But he's been bugging them non stop. Part of him feels bad about that. He's been relentless in the asking and pushed to the point of serious rudeness. But he can't stand the not knowing.

From his position on the floor he can see a small portion of the hallway. The nurse he had spoken with the last time around is there at the desk typing away at the computer. If he recalls correctly her name was Callie. He's pretty sure he owes her an apology. He doesn't recall their whole interaction because he had been so wound up with worry that his mind couldn't even keep up with what came out of his own mouth.

Sam can't take waiting anymore, all his patience is long departed. But he realizes that if he lashes out again they'll probably call security and have him thrown him out. And that can't happen. He has to get it together so he can stay close to Dean.

Using the wall for support Sam gets to his feet. He swipes his shirt sleeve over his eyes, wiping away the moisture there, and blows out a heavy breath. Finally, he feels calm enough to give himself a chance at not losing it and, thus, keeping himself from getting kicked out.

There's a coffee maker over in the opposite corner of the waiting area and Sam makes his way over there. He pours two cups of coffee. After placing a mini creamer cup and two sugar packets on the lid of each one he picks up the coffees and makes his way out into the hallway.

"I figured I owed you a coffee at the least," he says quietly as he reaches the desk. Callie lifts her gaze up from the chart she's reading and looks rather suspiciously at the paper cup Sam is holding out to her.

"I swear I didn't do anything to it," he adds. After a silent beat the nurse accepts the coffee and sets it down on the desk. It's clear she has no plans to drink it but that wasn't really Sam's goal anyway.

"Thanks," Callie replies.

"Hey, I'm sorry about early. I was really rude and you didn't deserve to be treated that way."

"No damage done. After you've worked this desk a while you get used to it."

"Well, nonetheless, I'm very sorry."

"Apology accepted. I actually was just about to come and find you," she replies. Her tone is soft and genuine.

"Is there news?"

"The doctor treating your brother will be out very shortly to talk to you," she informs him. But Sam doesn't have the time to offer anything in the way of a reply before her voice picks up again.

"As a matter of fact here he is now," she states as her gaze shifts off down the hallway. Sam turns to where she is looking and sees a man dressed in sea green colored scrubs headed their way. He looks to be in his late forties and is a little on the short side. And he carries himself confidently but not arrogantly.

As he arrives at the desk Callie speaks up again.

"This is Mr. Chambers' brother," Callie informs him.

"Oh good. I'll be right with you. Just have to make a quick notation on this chart," the physician directs at Sam before turning away to write on the patient file in his hand.

It takes a second for Sam to remember that Dean Chambers had been the name on the fake id in Dean's wallet which the medical staff had come across when he was first brought in.

Several days earlier Sam had been watching the movie Stand By Me while Dean, seated a few feet away, had been working at mocking up documents for a new alias. And short on rocker names at that moment he had chosen Chambers after the Chris Chambers character in the film. At the time it had not surprised Sam one bit that had been the character Dean had picked.

The wallet had been the only thing they had come to give Sam since they took his brother away.

Closing the chart and handing it to Callie the doctor turns back to him.

"Doctor Nathan Trevors," he says introducing himself. Then holds out his hand.

"Sam," he responds and accepts the handshake.

"I apologize that you had to wait so long for an update on your brother. But it couldn't be avoided."

"I understand," Sam replies even though it's a lie. He knows they were busy attending to Dean but it would have been good if somebody - anybody – hell he would have been fine if they'd sent the janitor with a note pinned to his shirt - to come tell him _something_.

"If you follow me my office is just down the hall and we can speak there."

Sam nods his head but doesn't verbally reply. His silence is due in part to the brick forming in his throat. And also because if he starts talking and asking questions he might get answers he's not ready to hear.

The walk to the doctor's office is tense and feels like it takes a lot longer than it should have considering the physical distance.

"Have a seat," Doctor Trevors says and gestures to the chair which stands in front of the desk located at the center of the small office. Sam slips into the seat, sets his coffee cup down and finally manages to find his voice.

"So, Doc, what's going on with my brother?"

As it exits his mouth Sam finds he's gripping the arms of the chair to the point that it hurts his hands. But it's the best he can do to brace himself for the possible news that may be coming.

"Take a breath, son," the doctor tells him.

"What?" Sam replies with confusion heavy in his voice.

"For most of the way here you've been holding your breath. I'd really prefer it if you didn't pass out."

Sam hadn't even realized he'd been doing it. But when he follows the advice and takes a few breaths in and out he feels a little straighter in the head.

"I'm...I'm just...," Sam begins to say but comes up empty of what he wants to convey.

"Worried about your brother. I understand. He's still with us, Sam."

Sam's voice has abandoned him. He's so overwhelmed with relief he can't do anything except sit there. But then suddenly his brain kicks in and he registers what the doctor just said. His words were that Dean was still with them not that he was going to be okay.

"So he's going to be alright?" he manages to force his voice to ask.

"I'm afraid Dean had a significant cardiac event."

"So he was right. He was having a heart attack."

"It appeared that way and certainly would have felt that way. And if I hadn't run blood tests and done imaging I would have assessed the situation as such all well."

"What exactly are you saying?"

"That I'm not prepared to make an official diagnosis one way or another quite yet. However, my analysis, thus far, indicates that your brother appears to have stress induced cardiomyopathy. One of the more severe cases I've seen actually. I haven't discovered any physical defect with the structures of the heart or any blocked arteries as of yet although we are still running tests. It could have been brought on by emotional trauma and distress. Has anything particularly stressful happened to your brother lately?"

"Our mother died," Sam replies, leaving out the word _again_ that belongs on the end.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Were he and your mother close? I'm apologize, I guess I really shouldn't pry."

"No. It's okay. Dean and our mother's relationship was – uh – complicated."

"That very likely could have been the trigger that got this runaway train rolling then."

"What do you mean?"

"If this is what I speculate it is then you may have heard of it by its layperson's name. Broken Heart Syndrome."

"Seriously? That's a thing?"

"The impact and stress of intense emotional trauma takes a toll on the body, particularly if the person is having difficulty letting go of the emotions for an extended time period. If that activity, that energy, is not decreased fairly quickly then it puts strain on the body. For example, the muscles react and everything kind of goes out of sync. This can lead to overworking the heart muscle as it has to work harder to keep up. It beats faster and, in turn, makes the person need to take in more oxygen so the breathing rate and depth is affected. Then the oxygen saturation level becomes unbalanced. And the heart can't pump well enough for the body's needs. Additionally, the heart can come out of proper rhythm as a result. This heavy workload often, as in your brother's case, enlarges the heart slightly and causes fluid to begin to build up. These occurrences begin to damage the heart muscle. And it's pretty much a domino effect from there. Pardon my language but things first go haywire and then to hell in a hand basket."

"So his heart is in bad shape then?" Sam asks reluctantly.

"I'm afraid so. In the majority of these type of cases the issue can be resolved with interventions such as medications, minor non-surgical procedures and improvement of the stress level."

"I sense a _but_ coming."

"Very perceptive of you."

"Not really. There's a lot of _buts_ and _howevers_ when it comes to my family."

"I see. You are correct though. There is a however. Your brother's situation is not typical of Broken Heart Syndrome patients."

"Not surprising. My brother – well – let's just say he's not run of the mill."

"Your brother was only awake briefly but he does seem to have a certain one of a kind quality to him," the doctor responds with a faint smile and Sam can tell by that and the tone of voice it's delivered in that the man has chosen his words carefully in an attempt to stay polite and professional. Clearly he's spent more than five minutes with Dean though.

"Tip of the iceberg, Doc. Anyway, you were saying his case is different."

"Well, more like atypical," Doctor Trevors responds.

"How so?" Sam questions in return.

"In, thus far, finding no physical defect of the heart structure or any blocked arteries or the like it is unusual to find this level of damage to the muscle. That's one of the reasons I am running some more tests to see if there is an underlying contributing cause. Something that the typical tests we use aren't picking up."

"So you think something more is going on and you just haven't found it yet?"

"That's fair to say. Finding some other contributing factor would be expected for the critical condition he's in."

"Wait. Critical?"

"I'm afraid that we need to work quickly to get his situation improved if he has a chance at survival. First step is that we're going to try medications in the hopes of strengthening the heart muscle and managing the rhythm and rate."

Sam wants to ask what they do next if those don't work but at the same time he doesn't want to hear the answer aloud. Deep down he knows it already. Just wishes that if he did ask the question out loud the doctor might by chance offer a different outcome.

"Don't hesitate to ask questions," Doctor Trevors offers quietly. He seems to have read something in Sam's expression or body language because there is an almost paternal look in his eyes now that wasn't there only a moment before.

"What – uh – what can be done if the meds don't help?"

"There are some procedures we can try that may be potential courses of action to consider."

"Like what?"

"As I said earlier Dean's heart has come out rhythm. This is known as atrial fibrillation. His heart is no longer beating at a regularly evenly spaced pace. This leads to the heart not being able to complete a full cycle of pumping blood in and out. And, therefore, it can't properly distribute blood flow through the body. There's a procedure known as cardioversion. We sedate the patient and after analyzing the heart beat contractions we deliver an electrical shock at just the right moment to hopefully kind of jump start the heart into a regular rhythm again."

"Okay," Sam responds with. He's too overwhelmed to get anything else out. The doctor seems to be able to tell that this is the case and continues. When he does his voice is a little quieter and firmer than before.

"The other issue is that when your brother was brought in his blood alcohol level was elevated. That increased the risks of giving him medications straight away. I need to ask about his drinking habits."

"Um, he may have a drink now and again. Beers and ya know." The casual confidence that Sam had hoped to portray didn't quite come out all the way. And it was instantly evident that the doctor saw right through the bullshit it was. He fixed Sam with a knowing look but didn't respond quite the way Sam thought he would.

"What's done is done. But it's important to be aware that alcohol consumption is a factor in all of this."

Sam nods to acknowledge his understanding that it's important. But he wonders whether the doctor was implying that his brother's alcohol abuse had contributed to where he is now. His mind flashes back to the scene in the garage of the bunker and the image of that open flask laying on the cement floor. His mind then retrieves the image of the six pack carton of beer Dean had been swiftly working his way through earlier in the day.

It makes him feel the way he always feels when he witnesses Dean's dependence on liquor.

Even as he's doing it Sam actually feels bad for lecturing Dean because when it comes to alcoholism Dean had, sadly and most certainly, been screwed right out of the gate. And for Sam it was hard to deny that he understood his reliance on it – not after all that had gone down since his brother was the young age of four.

Sam himself didn't actually have the greatest of relationships with a stiff drink. So who was he to talk. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt to see that Dean needed it both physically and mentally.

Suddenly Sam realizes he must have zoned out for a moment. The doctor is midway through explaining something but Sam can't recall how the conversation arrived at the point it's at. He does his best to focus and latch on to what the older man is saying.

"Unfortunately, your brother's heart is not strong enough right now to handle that procedure. He'll need to be on the medications to strengthen the heart muscle before I would even consider that treatment."

"Makes sense," Sam tosses out, feigning that he's been following along all the way through the entire train of thought.

There's a silent beat that follows in which the doctor pulls his chair in towards the desk slightly and then rests his forearms on top of the files spread out in front of him. This draws him in closer to Sam who sits on the opposite side of the desk. Sam recognizes the shift in proximity and body posture. They must teach it in medical school because he's seen it before and it never leads anywhere good. He finds his hands are gripping the arms of the chair tightly once again.

Finally, Doctor Trevors' voice pipes up again. It comes out in a near whisper but remains solid in its tone.

"I need to be clear with you here, son. Based off the extensive damage to Dean's heart combined with the complication that we haven't found blocked arteries or valve defects as of yet – so essentially something to be repaired – the prognosis is not favorable."

"So you're just giving up on him," Sam instantly responds. There is a sharp bite to the words.

"Not by a long shot. I going to do everything within my power to treat him. But I need to be up front with you so you can be prepared for the possibility we may run out of time before we find an effective treatment."

"Yeah I know. I'm sorry. It's just he's the only family I have."

"I can't even imagine what you are going through right now. Did you want to speak with me some more about it or if you like I can have one of our counselors come down if you prefer that."

"No that's okay. When can I see my brother?"

"Why don't you use the privacy of my office to take a minute. It's a lot to take in at once. I'll have someone come get you in a little bit and take you to see him," the physician offers and gets up heading for the door.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks, Doc," Sam offers in reply. He doesn't really want to stay there. He wants to see Dean immediately but he doesn't feel like he has the strength right at that moment to force the situation without it backfiring.

In fact, he feels like he's physically bound to the chair in which he's seated. The conversation seems to have thoroughly drained him somehow.

"Oh and Sam," Doctor Trevors speaks up as he reaches the doorway.

"Yeah," Sam reacts with.

"Remember to breath, okay, son."

"Understood," Sam tosses back, sounding more confident than he actually feels at the moment.

The physician accepts the response and moves out into the hall. He closes the door behind him, leaving Sam alone in the silence of the small office.

This time he catches himself holding his breath and lets out a long exhale. His head is spinning with the information the doctor has just given him and the emotions it bombards him with.

Sam can't believe what he had just heard. His brother, physically tough as nails and infused with the soul of a warrior, is dying of a broken heart. Sam can't seem to wrap his head around any part of that.

But he knows the Doc was right about one thing. Letting go was not a well oiled tool in his brother's wheelhouse so that piece rang true. And it appears it has helped lead to where they are now.

It was like things sank into Dean so deeply that they became embedded in his soul and a permanent piece of him. So extracting them was beyond painful – if even possible at all.

Then, of course, there was that other thing that sent up alerts in Sam's brain. The physician had expected to find some other contributing factor given the severity of Dean's condition. Translated in Sam's head this indicates there might be another force at work here and it's not a medical one. It's an avenue he has to jump right on. Research often takes time and that's something he is all too short on.

The other thing he needs to do is find Castiel. Because he might very well be the one holding the best chance at healing Dean. Problem is he departed over a week ago stating that he had to take care of something and might be out of communication range for a while.

But Sam has to try and, if necessary, keep trying until he gets a reply. So he closes his eyes and quietly calls out to the angel.

"Cas, I'm praying that you can hear me. Something happened to Dean. And we're short on time. He needs your help desperately. Please if you are hearing me come as soon as you can."

Sam offers another silent prayer for his brother's recovery, takes in a calming breath and opens his eyes.

But his plea has not brought the desired result. The small office remains empty spare himself. And there's no other indication that Castiel has heard him.

And suddenly he's angry – no he's livid. How is this happening again? How much are they supposed to take? When will what they suffer and sacrifice finally be enough? He accepted long ago that they weren't one ounce of normal. But there has to be an end, right? Some threshold or marker they should be able to pass over for it to be enough. But there's no end in sight. And here he is right back in the torture of watching his brother dying again.

He wants to scream. Wants to let every ounce of his anger, his hate, his loss, his broke-ness out into the air until the fire inside him abates.

But he refuses to let it escape. He fears if he does release it then he will finally be pushed over into irreparable insanity. And that would be abandoning his brother. So he fights to try and seal it all away far below the surface. And, finally, he beats it down enough so he regains some semblance of focus.

A soft knock on the office door keeps him from dwelling on it any further.

"Uh. Yeah. Come in!" Sam calls out. His voice cracks the slightest bit as he does so. He turns to look over in the direction the knock came from.

A beat later the door opens and Callie, the nurse from earlier, pokes her head inside the room.

"I'm here to take you to see your brother," she tells him in a quiet voice.

And suddenly Sam no longer feels like he's tightly bound to where he's seated. Using the palms of his hands braced down against the solidness of the chair's arms Sam propels himself to his feet and moves to the door.

He departs the small office, allowing the door to close on its own at his back, and lets Callie lead him to Dean.

 _To Be Continued..._

 _ **Shameless Self Promotion**_ _– I've posted a one shot stand alone related to Do You Believe in Miracles (9x23) titled A Simple Act of Brotherhood. It can be found at the following URL: (apparently you can't do full links but I trust you're smart enough to figure it out by adding the usual front part of this website's URL plus the piece provided below)_

 _s/12494291/1/A-Simple-Act-Of-Brotherhood_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary**

Mary Winchester has been killed on a hunt. Her now second death has hit both of her son's hard. But one of them may never recover from the loss when grief manifests itself in an unexpected way.

 **Warnings**

Possible character death but can't say for sure one way or another because that would take away from the story. But be full aware I have written a lot of fanfiction for many different fandoms (here under several names and in other places) and have ended stories both ways – with surviving and not surviving. So maybe. Maybe not. So thought I would mention it in case that uncertainty doesn't work for somebody.

 **Characters**

Sam, Dean and some Castiel.

 **Author's Note**

Thanks for reading!

 **I-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-I**

 **Heartsick**

 **Chapter Six**

The brightness of the heart monitor screen stands out in the dimmed lighting of Dean's hospital room. But what jumps out even more strikingly to Sam is the erratic rhythm which it displays.

Over the years Sam has sat for what is likely more than his fair share of bedside vigils. He knows the basic purposes of the machines and their readings. And the doctor had explained the highlights back in his office. But actually seeing the irregular pace of his brother's heart digs into his own fiercely.

He doesn't know as much as a licensed medical professional but he understands enough to know that the uneven spacing of the pulse, with some beats elongated apart and still others right on top of one another, is far from normal. So is the number of heartbeats per minute for someone who isn't even awake. Based off the elevated rate it seems more like Dean should be running down a wendigo right about now not flat on his back in a hospital bed.

Sam turns his gaze away from the monitor and to the bed in front of him. Dean lies there asleep or unconscious, which one he's not entirely sure, same as he has been since Sam arrived at his bedside. He's nestled in amongst a small mountain of blankets, a hefty blood pressure cuff and a impressive collection of tubes and wires. Most of his face is obscured by a mask delivering oxygen to him.

After studying the monitor Sam understands the need for the mask rather than a nasal cannula. Even with the added supply of oxygen Dean's saturation level is still on the low side.

It occurs to Sam that this couldn't possibly have been something that went from zero to a hundred miles an hour in the blink of an eye. Dean must have truly not been feeling well for some time. Sam's mind scrolls back through all the weeks. His brain catalogs all the little things that may have been clues. Dean's lack of appetite and his steady queasiness. The cough he had developed. The hand Sam had seen his brother rub over his chest on more than one occasion. Those are just a few of the things on the list he mentally dredges up.

He sees now in hindsight how although on their own they didn't seem reason for heavy concern that taken collectively they drew a vivid picture.

He should have pushed harder. Maybe found just the right words. Taken some sort of stand. Because the hints had been there. But Sam had walked on eggshells reasoning that Dean would only retreat further if he didn't. Maybe if he hadn't worn kid gloves they could have caught this earlier.

But still part of him knows he had chosen the route that had the best odds of producing results. He knows Dean well enough to know that.

A soft sound from one of the monitors draws Sam's gaze over in search of its source. He finds it quickly. Just one of the machines clicking into another mode. He has asked about that particular one before on some visit to the hospital years prior. It's nothing of concern.

So he looks back to the bed to find Dean's head now turned his way on the pillow. His eyes are opened slightly but heavy with the effort of keeping them that way.

"Hey. Finally decided to stop slacking off I see," Sam tells him quietly. There's a teasing smile in his voice that helps keep the emotion of the moment at bay.

"I'm not the perfectly healthy one sitting on his ass in a chair," Dean mumbles out. It's muffled through the oxygen mask but the snap of the tone still comes through. Dean groggily reaches a hand up and fumbles in attempt to remove the mask from his face.

"You need to keep that on Dean," Sam tells him and starts to reach out to stop his brother from getting the mask off. But Dean manages to pull it down around his neck before Sam can intercept his hand.

"It's annoying me."

"I'm pretty sure annoyed is your normal setting. You need to leave it," Sam responds.

"Don't need it."

"Dean," Sam says. It's quiet in volume but firm in warning.

"Now who sounds annoyed," Dean comments tiredly.

"You're putting that back on!" Sam states, insistence clear in his voice.

"Bite me."

Sam is pulled to fight Dean further about the mask but decides to back off for the moment. He has a feeling that Dean's hand will find its own way back to the mask once the absence of the extra influx of oxygen settles into him.

"How ya doing, man?" he asks instead.

"Oh I'm just grand," Dean replies. The words are followed by a cough that he clearly fights to hold back but, ultimately, can't.

"I see they didn't remove your sarcasm. I should have told them you needed a sarcasm-etomy," Sam states flatly.

No response arrives immediately. For a long moment Dean diverts his gaze up at the ceiling. In the quiet Sam can hear the wheeze embedded in his brother's breathing. He considers giving it another round of battle regarding the oxygen mask but loses his chance as Dean speaks up.

"Crappy, alright. You know I hate these places, Sam. I hate fucking hospitals."

"I know but it's where you need to be right now."

"What's the point in being here if they can't do anything? It's a load of crap. I don't need to be here to sleep. I can do that just fine in my own damn bed. And that one remembers me. This one sure the hell doesn't."

"If you refuse to do it for yourself. Then do it for me, Dean. Stay here for me."

"That's low Sam – playin' that card."

"Maybe so. But I don't really give a rat's ass. Deal with it."

"That's nice. Pick on the guy with the heart condition. First you threaten to tie me up and toss me in the back of the Impala to bring me here. And now this."

"You remember that?" Sam questions with surprise in his voice. Given the shape Dean had been in he hadn't expected his brother to recall much of anything about it.

"Yes. Well kind of. Everything's a little swiss cheesed in my head. But I do remember that part of the conversation."

The scene in the hallway of the bunker from the night before invades Sam's mind and right along with it all the emotions flood back in. He hangs his head and focuses his gaze on the threads running through the blanket on the bed. And works to keep himself together. But either he's taken too long or Dean simply knows something is up because his voice pipes up.

"What is it, Sammy?"

Sam begins to speak but fails. He is forced to clear his throat instead. Then, finally, he answers his brother's question. Probably a bit more honestly than he would have liked to. But the words seem to have come out all on their own without much of any input from him.

"You scared the shit out me, man. I came around the corner and saw you lying there on the floor...and...uh...you weren't moving. Then when I got to you – Dean – you weren't breathing."

There's a beat of silence and Sam can tell the information is sinking into his brother. When Dean has thoroughly processed it he struggles somewhat to keep his composure. But his sheer determination wins in the end. When he finally responds his voice is soft in volume and gentler in tone.

"I didn't know that. And I'm sorry if I freaked you out."

"It's not like you did it on purpose."

"Almost made it," his brother comments. It comes out sad sounding. His gaze shifts away from Sam and up at the ceiling in its wake. Clearly it means something of significance to Dean but Sam is at a loss.

"Almost made what?" he questions. It draws Dean's gaze back toward him.

"To your room. Told myself I was going to stay on my feet until I got to your damn door. Guess I failed at that too."

"What do you mean _too_?"

The question immediately makes Dean shift in the bed – rolling away on his side slightly. He's no longer facing Sam now.

"I'm tired Sam. I just want to sleep," he says after he settles.

"Dean?"

"I don't want to talk about this."

"What did you mean, Dean? I need you to tell me because I don't see a single damn thing you failed at here."

"Then you're not as smart as I thought you were. Cuz I sure as hell do," Dean snaps before being captured by the need to cough relentlessly. Ultimately, he's forced to return to lying on his back in order to get air into his lungs.

Watching his brother struggle to catch his breath pushes Sam into an attempt to get his brother to open up to him.

"Talk to me, Dean."

The words are more of a plea than forceful.

"Only thing I'm doing right now, Sam, is sleeping. If you don't like it then you can leave," Dean replies, closes his eyes and brings his arm up so his wrist and forearm are draped over his eyes and nose. The action does little to conceal the storm of emotions brewing in his brother's expression.

A tense silence settles over the room. Sam has to draw on sheer will to keep himself seated in the chair. He feels the pull to get up and go take a good long walk to calm himself before he says something he will regret. But he doesn't want Dean to feel alone or abandoned. So he does his best to stay glued to the seat beside his brother's bed.

Sam tries to busy his mind by looking over to study the monitors once again. It doesn't really do much good. So he tries to mentally search for something else to focus on. But doesn't find anything attention grabbing before Dean's voice breaks the quiet of the room.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, right here, what do you need, Dean?" Sam responds immediately bringing his gaze back towards the bed. Dean still isn't looking at him but the arm that was draped across his face has been lowered to his side. His eyes are open and focused up at the ceiling.

"I need to say that I'm sorry. Ya know for before when you wanted us to go out on a hunt. I was a jerk okay."

"It's okay. It's already forgotten. Besides it turns out it's good we didn't go. I mean if this had happened mid hunt it could have been even worse."

This finally draws Dean's gaze away from the ceiling and over at Sam. There's a slightly confused expression on his face as he replies.

"Worse? How's that possible? I have wires and tubes coming out of me from places I don't even want to think about."

"It would have been worse if you weren't here right now to bitch and moan about all the tubes and wires," Sam replies.

"Okay, I can maybe see how that'd be worse."

A quick knock arriving on the door to the room prevents Sam from responding. After a beat the door opens and the nurse from earlier, Callie, steps in.

"Good to see you awake finally. I'm Callie," she offers.

"Dean."

"Well, Dean, that mask was put on for a reason," she tells him and solidly meets his gaze. Sam interjects with a bit of advice from his first hand experience regarding his brother before she gets in too deep.

"I already tried that. We've already been down this road. Might want to change course there, Callie, while you still can."

"Is that so? I see," she replies.

"See what?" Dean questions.

"Oh nothing," she responds. Sam smiles faintly.

"And just what are you smirking at, Samuel?" his brother throws out at him.

"Oh nothing," he replies. His amusement comes out of two things. First, the fact that he knows that the nurse was referring to what type of patient his brother was going to prove to be. And, second, that Callie was turning out to be someone Dean wouldn't be able to sweet talk or threaten easily.

Dean has him fixed with a sharp glare. Luckily, the nurse speaks up before things turn too ugly.

"Doctor's ordered another test," she informs Dean.

"Oh good something to look forward to," Dean quips quietly.

"Dean!" Sam tosses out almost scoldingly.

"What?"

"She's just doing her job."

"Fine. Whatever. What is it this time? Haven't you people already hooked me up to every damn piece of equipment in this joint."

"Not by a long shot. I'm sure if you don't cooperate we can scrounge up a couple dozen more tests," the nurse responds.

Sam simply crosses his arms over his chest and grins. Finally he has someone to double team his brother with. Dean manages a solid glare but his exhaustion wins out in the end.

"Okay. Come on already. Lay it on me. What is it this time?" he asks.

"It's called a trans-esophageal echocardiogram."

"A what?"

"We'll sedate you. Then we use a probe inserted down your throat into your stomach to take pictures of your heart from behind it. The images are typically more detailed than the ones the external echo produces. You already had the external one when you were out."

"You want to probe me? Oh hell no. That ain't happening!" Dean responds straight away. And in the next instant he is in motion trying to sit up.

"Dean. I swear to god if you don't lie back down in that bed..." Sam snaps and moves quickly to keep his brother from making any progress into being upright.

"You'll do what, Sam?" Dean questions as Sam's hand placed to his chest keeps him in the bed at least for the moment. Finally, when his brother has stopped fighting back Sam straightens up and answers.

"Let's just put it this way," Sam says as he digs a hand into the pocket of his jeans. He pulls out the object of his search and holds it up. The keys to the Impala dangle from his fingertips. He gives them a little shake resulting in a light jingle for added effect. Then adds a few words about his intent.

"I believe I saw a river back down the road a little ways."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Oh I think I would."

"I'm the one in the damn hospital bed and everyone is ganging up on me. That's just so... _wrong._ "

"He's not easy to help, is he?" Callie pipes up. It's directed at Sam.

"You have no idea."

" _He_ can hear you," Dean grumbles thoroughly agitated from the bed.

"Doesn't mean he's listening," Callie tells him.

"What is it I'm supposed to be listening to? Doc already told me what I need to know. My scorecard is clear as a bell," Dean grumbles.

"Doesn't mean we stop trying," she responds. This time there is a gentleness in her tone.

"Fine," Dean finally responds but it's obvious that it's more out of exhaustion than any kind of acceptance.

"That's much better. Now lie down. And put that mask back on," Callie tells him.

"I don't like you people," Dean informs the pair standing beside his bed and then lets himself fall back against the pillow. Once he's settled Callie adjusts the oxygen mask so it's placed back over his nose and mouth. The action results in an eye roll from Dean.

"I'm having flashbacks to my rotation in pediatrics," the nurse comments to Sam by looking over to him.

"Sounds about right," Sam responds with a confirming nod of the head.

"Hey, this test may take a little bit. The cafeteria is open now. Might be a good opportunity for you to get something in your stomach besides that horrible waiting room coffee," she suggests.

"Well since I don't have my own wallet on me I might actually take that advice. Ya know since my brother here is paying."

"You empty my wallet and I'll kick your ass. You hear me, Sam," Dean growls at him.

"Sorry can't hear you. You're muffled. Ya know the mask and all. Guess it'll have to wait until after your test," Sam responds. He briskly makes a break for the door.

"Have fun being probed!" he tells Dean and slips out into the hallway before Dean has the chance to even form a comeback.

He heads down the corridor at a determined pace. Where he's going to end up he's not exactly sure. Maybe towards the cafeteria to get the breakfast the nurse had suggested. Perhaps to finally take that long walk he so desperately needs to keep it together.

Or maybe simply to be anywhere he doesn't have to sit helplessly and watch his brother struggle to do something as simple to breath.

 **I-%%-%-%%-I**

Making his way slowly along the hallway Sam finishes off the last few bites of the banana he bought with the scrambled eggs he ordered down in the hospital cafeteria. He had made quick work of the eggs while seated at one of the tables there. Then did some research on his phone which resulted in nothing more than a shitload of frustration. He had found nothing of any use.

Then he'd sat at the table for a moment longer to whisper another prayer to Castiel. Finally, not wanting to stay away for too long he had headed back in the direction of his brother's room as soon as he had cleared his plate and tucked away the phone in his pocket.

Spotting a rubbish bin located along the wall near the door to one of the waiting areas he veers off course briefly to throw away the peel. Standing over the trash barrel he takes the time to wipe his hands on the napkin he brought with him from the cafeteria.

It's early morning and there is very little foot traffic in the corridors of the small hospital. So he's grateful to be able to take a calm moment alone before having to go back into that room again. He wants to be with Dean but at the same time it's hard seeing him in a hospital bed yet again.

A noise from behind him breaks the silence of the hallway. Sam reflexively pivots around towards the sound to assess if it might be something unfriendly. His hand instantly clenches into a fist in case he needs to throw a punch.

But instead of a threat to be dealt with he comes smack dab face to face with Castiel.

"Geez, Cas!" Sam spits out and slumps back to lean against the wall while his heart rate recovers.

"Sorry. I used such haste in getting here that I may have forgotten to take into account our many discussions about personal space."

"You're lucky I didn't punch your lights out."

"Yes, that would have been unfortunate. And I will keep it in mind for next time."

"It's okay. I guess I'm just on edge," Sam offers and straightens up from the support of the wall.

"Understandable. How is Dean?"

Sam doesn't respond verbally right away. The words seem too jumbled up inside his head to make any sense if he were to speak them aloud. He searches for their proper order for a long moment. Before he finds it something shifts in Cas' blue gaze. And there is knowing in his eyes. After a beat he speaks up again.

"I take it this means it's bad."

"He had a cardiac event. His heart is badly damaged," Sam responds borrowing the doctor's words.

"Perhaps then we should stop loitering in the hallway and proceed to his room," Castiel states.

With that they begin walking along the corridor. They are both silent for a long stretch until Sam manages to find his voice.

"You have no idea how relieved I am that you heard me. I knew you were out of communication range for a while and didn't know how long it might take to get a response."

"Well I'm here now. Let's find your brother and heal him up."

"You have no idea how grateful I am for you right now," Sam tells him quietly.

"Gratitude is not required. But thank you nonetheless," Cas replies. They've arrived at the intersection of the hallway. Sam goes left and Castiel turns right.

"It's this way!" Sam calls out and shakes his head.

"Oh. I see. Very well," Cas states flatly and pivots around and heads in Sam's direction. Sam's slow pace means that Castiel manages to catch back up fairly quickly. They return to silence for the remainder of the journey.

Just as they arrive outside Dean's room the door opens and Callie exits out into the hallway. Seeing Sam she speaks up.

"He's settled back in. The doctor will review the results and be around later to discuss them."

"Thanks Callie. He didn't give you too much trouble, did he?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle. For the most part his exhaustion took the fight out of him as soon as you left," she explains.

"Yeah this has taken a lot out of him," Sam replies. She nods her head in agreement then directs her attention towards Castiel who stands at Sam's side.

"I'm sorry we haven't met before. Are you another family member?" she asks him.

"I'm...," Castiel begins to reply but gets lost in how to answer and falls silent. So Sam picks up for him.

"Yes. This is our brother – Cas," he informs her.

"Good to meet you. Dean's still asleep. It'll take a little while for the sedative we gave him to wear off. But you are welcome to go in and sit with him," she tells both of them.

"Thanks for everything Callie," Sam responds.

"Yes. Thank you for taking care of...our brother," Cas adds.

Callie offers them a soft smile and heads off down the hall. Sam looks around the corridor in which they stand, surveying the scene to see who else is around. Not finding anything of concern he turns to Castiel.

"Alright. Now might be a good time. I'll keep look out. You go in and do your thing."

Castiel nods in understanding and takes a step towards the door. But before he pushes it open he pauses and looks to Sam.

"Brother?" he asks.

"Because that's what you are," Sam answers. Castiel turns away and heads inside. But Sam still manages to catch the contented expression that had washed over his face in response to Sam's words. Sam smiles faintly. It was nothing more than the truth.

As soon as Cas is inside Sam monitors the hallway, trying to seem as casual as possible.

When several hospital staffers come around the corner further down the corridor he pulls out his phone and pretends to be looking at something on the screen. He holds in his breath as they approach and only lets it out when they turn off to enter a room down the hall.

"Hurry it up Cas," he mumbles.

But it's another collection of seriously long minutes before the door to Dean's room opens. And Castiel, finally, comes back out.

"What took so long?"

"There were complications," Cas replies.

"Complications? Did Dean wake up and put up a fight?"

"No. Dean is not awake."

"Then what?"

"I can't heal him," Cas informs him.

"What do you mean you can't? Why won't you do this for me – _for him_?" Sam nearly growls.

"I said I can't not that I wasn't willing to do so."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I tried to do it and I can't. As in I'm not able to. There's something preventing me from healing his heart," Cas explains. The tone is matter of fact but Sam would swear he recognizes frustration and sadness hovering just below the surface.

"But..." he begins to reply. He quickly falls silent as it sinks into him. He suddenly realizes just how much he was counting on Castiel to save Dean. Anger fills him and he decides he's not accepting that it's true.

"No. You've done it before. Get back in there. Now!"

"I'm sorry Sam," Cas offers quietly.

"Cas, you get back in there and heal my brother! You keep going until it's done," Sam snaps out.

"I will try again. But I am certain of the same result," Cas responds and enters back into Dean's room.

"This can't be happening. Why is this happening? When the hell is it ever going to be enough!" he curses out to the empty hallway around him. And before he knows it the phone he had been holding is flying through the air. It smacks into the wall and falls to the floor. It's followed by his fist impacting the same place.

When the surge of fury wanes he cradles his injured hand and slumps against the wall beside his brother's hospital room door.

The weight of what Cas told him is suddenly too great and he can't maintain being on his feet any longer. He slides down the wall and seats himself on the floor. He holds his wounded hand to his chest protectively and lets his head loll down.

And feels the moisture finally arrive in his eyes and roll down over his cheeks.

 _To Be Continued..._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary**

Mary Winchester has been killed on a hunt. Her now second death has hit both of her son's hard. But one of them may never recover from the loss when grief manifests itself in an unexpected way.

 **Warnings**

Possible character death but can't say for sure one way or another because that would take away from the story. But be full aware I have written a lot of fanfiction for many different fandoms (here under several names and in other places) and have ended stories both ways – with surviving and not surviving. So maybe. Maybe not. So thought I would mention it in case that uncertainty doesn't work for somebody.

 **Characters**

Sam, Dean and some Castiel.

 **Author's Note**

Thanks for reading!

And thanks for reviewing, following and favoriting (with three exclamation points)

 **I-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-I**

 **Heartsick**

 **Chapter Seven**

The foot traffic in the hospital has begun to pick up. And the long stretches of time when Sam is alone in the hallway are all but gone away now. He was forced to get it together and stand back up as more and more people passing by had glanced down at him questioningly as he sat on the floor outside Dean's room. He's now leaned back against the wall beside the door, doing his best to look casual.

Castiel still has not emerged from his second trip into the room. And it feels like it's been forever.

Sam pushes out an impatient breath and looks down at his injured right hand. His knuckles are red and swollen and the skin is cracked open in one spot. Clenched into a fist the pain is not that bad but he knows he needs to see if it works okay. So taking a deep inhale he opens his hand up and spreads out his fingers.

His index finger and its neighbor put up most of the protest. He can't fully straighten them out and they throb like nobody's business. And they are swelling faster than the rest. One or both of them may be fractured. He's pretty sure the wall won that fight.

But in a strange way Sam welcomes the pain. It gives him something to concentrate on overcoming. Makes him feel like he has a goal that he has a shot of reaching. Because right now the score at helping his brother is Dean's heart damage a hundred and Sam Winchester a big fat zero.

Finally, Sam hears movement from the other side of the door. He swiftly stuffs his wounded hand in the pocket of his jeans. He's not really sure why but he doesn't want Cas to see it. His best guess is that their focus should be on the person lying in the hospital bed and not on him.

The sound proves to be what he suspected. Only a beat after his hand is tucked away the door opens and Castiel slips out into the hallway.

"So?" Sam manages to get out despite his suddenly parched throat and lips.

Cas glances around at the comings and goings of hospital staff and visitors in the corridor. Then turns back to Sam and pipes up.

"Perhaps we should speak somewhere a bit more private."

"Right. I saw a small waiting room with a door down on the left. Let's go there."

Castiel simply nods in agreement and they head down the hall. The silence is too much for Sam to take so he asks a question that won't raise any eyebrows should someone be within earshot.

"Is he awake?"

"Not yet. I have summarized the sedative they gave him was rather effective."

"Maybe that's for the best. It's not like he rests a lot. Certainly not last night. It was almost two in the morning when I found him and he had been working down in the garage before that. He hadn't been to bed yet at all."

"I am unclear. What exactly happened?" Cas questions. The tone is caring and not demanding.

"A noise woke me up and I couldn't get back to sleep. I didn't know what it was at the time but now I'm pretty sure it was Dean trying to make it to my room. Anyway, I was awake and decided to go do some research. I'm walking down the hall and there he is out cold on the floor. Cas, he wasn't breathing. It scared the shit out me. I can't lose him yet again. I just...can't. I'm done. Anyway, when he came around he told me he thought he was having a heart attack. So I rushed him here."

"Yes. The heart damage is pronounced. I was able to sense it immediately upon laying my hand on him."

"Yeah that's pretty much what the Doc told me," Sam replies as they arrive at the small waiting room. Finding it unoccupied Cas proceeds in followed by Sam who closes the door behind them. As soon as their chances of being overheard are squared away he speaks up.

"Talk to me. What's going on? What'd you find out?"

"We have a problem," Cas tells him in a matter of fact tone.

"That's not exactly what I wanted to hear," Sam responds. There's a bit of unintended irritation in his voice. Castiel sets him with a confused look for a beat then verbally reacts.

"I don't understand. You asked if I discovered anything not to tell you what you wanted to hear. Oh wait. This is one of those questions that's not what it seems, right?"

"Cas, just tell me what you found," Sam replies with frustration coming to the surface of his voice.

"I couldn't see it in its entirety. But what I could gather is that the physical ailment in his heart is bound to the ailment inside his head. I could sense that his heart damage, although significant, is something I could resolve on its own but the emotional damage is etched into him very deeply and I do not believe my abilities are of the kind that can heal the physical aspect while the two are intertwined."

"So you can't just focus your healing on the physical then?"

"That's what I am trying to tell you. I did that. But the tether is incredibly strong. Almost tactile. One seems to be fueling the other. And the emotional damage is so entrenched, so branded onto him, that as long as they are bound I cannot heal him."

The words impact Sam like a punch to the gut. And the apologetic expression on Cas' face and the certainty in his eyes only delivers an even harsher blow.

"I tried everything I could think to try and I failed."

"No. You did your best. You have nothing to apologize for. I know that if you could you would fix him," Sam offers back in a soft but confident tone.

"I wish I had the ability to do so. I truly do."

"I know."

"Perhaps there is something more I can try," Cas says as a thoughtful expression washes over his face.

"What's that?"

'"I can check with my contacts and see if anyone has any insight. I have never seen anything like this before but maybe one of my counterparts has encountered it and knows a way around it."

"Thanks Cas."

"It is no trouble. I shall return as soon as possible. Until then call if you need me."

"Will do."

"Oh and Sam."

"Yeah."

"He's stubborn as they come. There's fight in him yet. Mark my words."

Sam nods his head in appreciation and understanding. And in the next breath Castiel is gone.

Sam's nod of agreement to Castiel's words is, for the most part, nothing more than a polite gesture. Beneath the surface he's beyond worried.

Cas is right to some degree though. Dean is stubborn as all hell. But what if it's not enough? What if his brother's fight is no match for this battle.

Suddenly the pain in Sam's wounded hand draws his attention back to it. He carefully pulls it from his jeans pocket and cradles it in his good hand in attempt quell the ache. But it helps little. He concedes he probably should have asked Cas to heal it since he won't be expelling any energy on Dean after all. But for some reason he's oddly attached to the pulse of pain radiating from it.

As the throbbing in his hand amplifies tenfold his stomach sways. He swallows down on the bile that rises up into his throat and threatens to expel itself from his mouth. But the intensity of it only persists and soon he's feeling dizzy. Sam takes a wobbly step backward to try and regain his equilibrium. Fortunately, his leg brushes against the chair which stands behind him so he realizes how close it is.

He gives in to the light headed-ness and drops into the seat. He hangs his head, clutches his wounded hand and tries to ride out the assault. It is a long string of minutes before it relents and by its end Sam is exhausted from the effort. He's also frustrated. He can't seem to keep it together even though that might be the only thing he has to offer Dean.

He decides in that moment he will not forfeit this battle. He will not stop, he will not relent, until he saves his brother. He will win this war come hell or high water.

 **I-%%-%-%%-I**

Dean runs the tip of his tongue over his lips to moisten them and peeks open his heavy eyelids. Then swallows down against the rawness in his throat. There's a pressure pushing down on most of him. The small remainder of him is thoroughly numb.

As his mind slowly gathers itself he remembers something about them doing a test of some kind and that sedation was involved. It explains the disconnection he feels from the world outside of his own body. The external space around him is nothing more than foggy grayness.

He decides it's not worth fighting and gives in. Dean lets his eyelids fall shut again and allows himself to float in the haze.

His mind is somewhat awake though, working on its own momentum and not any direction Dean sends it in. The memory of the night before comes to him - of being in the bunker's garage working on the Impala.

But its recollection is startlingly altered. This time he's outside of himself watching the scene unfold rather than experiencing it firsthand. Now he's more like an observer. And the scene is not completely fluid. At first it arrives in his mind in brief flashes that start out blurry and overexposed. But, ultimately, the focus resolves slightly and the garage around him is more solid.

He sees himself working on the car then moving to the tool chest where he lays the wrench down. Watches as his copy stares at the cell phone lying there.

Remembering what is to come Dean calls out to himself to pick up the damn phone this time and call Sam. Despite the echo of his own voice in the hollow space of the garage the memory of himself does not heed his urging. In fact, he doesn't even to seem to hear it at all. It's like watching a movie and yelling at the character on the screen trying to warn them of impending doom. They always remain blissfully unaware of what is to come. And Dean watches himself deny the phone and walk over to the car. There he offers his apology and a pat on the hood to her.

The flashes of memory are beginning to be less overexposed and at a wider angle now. He sees himself glance back at the cell over on top of the tool chest and all the relentlessly tortuous thoughts from the night before suddenly come to life in the air of the garage. His copy is not actually speaking but somehow the words of his thoughts reverberate off the walls and ricochet back to him like well sharpened knives.

 _We weren't with her on that hunt. If we had been maybe we could have stopped it. I'll never know now. She was family – she was our god damn mother – and we couldn't keep her safe. I couldn't keep her safe. That was my job after all – look after family at all costs._

The thoughts are harsh and pathetic sounding all at the same time as they bounce around in the air of the garage. Harsh in their truth. Pathetic in his own stellar ability to throw a hell of a pity party.

Dean screams out, cursing at his copy. "Man up you fucking loser! Get your goddamn piece of shit ass together. And for once manage not to be such a failure."

But once again his words go unheard. And more of his copy's thoughts echo out through the bunker's garage.

 _I let her down. I let Dad down. And I especially let my little brother down. Sam finally got the chance to get to know our mother. To form his own memories of her. To ask questions he always wanted to ask her but never could because she was gone way before he even uttered his first word. And now he's been cheated all over again._

 _It's my fault. This is all on me. I'm a complete and utter failure._

The crushing weight of it begins to suffocate Dean and he struggles to fight the momentum of his own mind. Tries to gain control and reign in the recollection from spiraling any further. Claws desperately at the choke hold around his airway. Begs for it to relent and release him.

But his fight falls far too short. The words ring out in the hollowness of the garage around him. This time they are much louder in volume, almost deafening, and the cruelty of their tone more raw.

 _It's my fault. This is all on me. I'm a complete and utter failure._

The memory begins to flicker in and out erratically. It's there for a long collection of beats and then blackness crashes in. Then he's standing in the bunker's garage once again. The duration of how long each alternating round of blackness and memory lasts fluctuates wildly, sometimes staying for less than an instant and at other times for an eternity before its counterpart returns. There is no rhythm – no stability - and it sends Dean reeling.

In the blackness he feels himself being dragged down to a place completely devoid of air. He fights and scrapes to free himself from its pull but the increasing suffocation is draining him of every last ounce of strength.

Then suddenly he is standing in the bunker again, watching his copy falling to the floor. The words echo out again. _It's my fault. This is all on me. I'm a complete and utter failure._ The garage around him doesn't stay in focus long though and he senses the blackness as it approaches once again. The scene before him begins to break up, begins to pixelate, as the pitch blackness gains ground on him. The words repeat again. _It's my fault. This is all on me. I'm a complete and utter failure._ It's more distant sounding now but its truth impacts him just the same.

Despite the blackness increasingly overtaking him Dean suddenly realizes that the voice he hears this time around is not his own. He feels the pull of the blackness tugging at him to give in. He mentally digs in his heels to hang on to the scene for just an instant longer.

His gaze frantically searches the garage around him to find the source of the voice. For the first time his gaze is not fixed solely on the copy of himself that is now laid out unconscious on the floor. At first he finds nothing. But as the blackness latches on to him again and starts to pull him in he glances back to the copy of himself on the floor and finds what he is searching for. He only gets a glimpse of the blurry form of some kind of being looming over his limp body before the blackness becomes victor of their battle. It is enough to know it is nothing he has come across before. But somehow he senses it won't be their last meeting.

He is submerged in the blackness once more and his air is all but spent this time. And he knows he is falling over the steep edge into suffocation. His heart feels like its exploding, each beat crashing into his ribcage with immense force. His lungs are empty of oxygen and are collapsing in on themselves. The rush of blood inside his head is thunderous, almost deafening. The overwhelming urge to let go, to allow himself to succumb, grips him. The unrelenting words echo above the raging river of blood crashing through his head.

 _It's my fault. This is all on me. I'm a complete and utter failure._

But this time he finishes the thought, adding the ending that he knows always belonged there.

 _The world is better off without me._

He is about to allow the blackness to consume him completely when there is another distant voice calling out to him. He wants to ignore it. Wants to finally stop fighting the truth. Wants to finally reach the end.

But the voice nears and familiarity sets in. He wants to hide here – to seal himself off from the voice he knows belongs to his little brother.

 _Sam's better off without me anyway._

But his brother's voice only becomes clearer and more insistent.

"Dean! Dean! Stay with me, brother. Come on wake up!"

There's a omnipotent power in his voice and a pure unrelenting determination in his tone that even the blackness can't withstand. It releases him and with a jolt he breeches the surface into the light.

He gasps in an entire lungful of air in one inhale and opens his eyes. And finds Sam gazing down at him, panic in his expression and tears in his eyes.

 _To Be Continued..._


End file.
